“Overhauling the ship’s papers,” the doctor said.
“Well, they can’t sink us while these men are on board!” remarked an old lady, comfortably. She took out her knitting—a khaki muffler—and began to work. “I do so like the German method of knitting—and now I feel it my duty to use the English fashion. It’s so annoying!” she confided to Norah. Her needles clicked busily.
Presently the two German officers came down the ladder, followed by Captain Garth. They went to the Marconi-room, where the young sentry stood his ground for a moment, ludicrously undecided, changing to immense relief as the captain waved him aside with a curt nod. There came sounds of altercation in the Marconi-room—and the young operator, Grey, came out with a thunderous face and joined the passengers.
“Brutes!” he said, explosively. “They’ve dismantled the apparatus and kicked me out—one of the great beasts threatened me with a revolver. Wish I’d had one myself!”
“A jolly good thing you hadn’t, young man, if that’s how you feel about it!” remarked the doctor.
There was a wretched feeling of helplessness over every one. To make short work of the two strange men would have been so easy; to think of doing it so futile, with the grey warship lying near, her guns trained on the Perseus. They waited as patiently as they might until the officers reappeared; and presently a message came to them to muster on the boat deck.
They faced the Germans somewhat defiantly, the most placid of the company being the old lady with the muffler, who knitted serenely, after casting one glance of withering comprehensiveness at their captors. The Germans held the passenger-list, and ran over it quickly. They spoke English without difficulty, and with scarcely any accent.
“There is one name not present,” the senior said; “Henry Smith, booked for London. Where is he?”
“In his cabin,” Captain Garth answered curtly,
“Is he ill?”