She got up at last, put on her dressing-gown and leaned out of the port-hole. Without, the night was very dark; somewhere, a storm was brewing, and all the stars had disappeared. A faint, occasional glow of phosphorescence shone from the water racing past. There was refreshment in the cool touch of the night air upon her hot face. Norah liked the sea at night; even though now she could scarcely see it, it was there, great, and quiet, and companionable, with something soothing in the gentle touch of the water on the side of the ship. She liked it best when it came in waves that dashed cheerily beneath her port, breaking in a scatter of star-lit foam; but to-night it was dark and mysterious, and if you were wakeful it was easy to weave stories about it, and to picture tropic islands where just such seas lapped lazily on white coral beaches. In the daytime, Norah was a very practical person, and rarely thought of weaving stories. At night everything seemed different and strange; and the sea took possession of her imagination and whispered to her all sorts of queer things that she could never have told to any one—not even to Dad and Jim. They would have been kind and sympathetic, of course, and would never laugh at her; but they would probably have questioned themselves as to whether she were quite well.
As she leaned out, watching, the little phosphorescent gleams on the water came and went fitfully; sometimes barely a glimmer, and then a stronger gleam that rested for a moment on the crest of a lazy swell. So black was the night that every tiny fragment of light seemed twice its real size—and when dark water rolled over the faint sparkles, the gloom seemed a hundred-fold deeper. Presently, however, the little intermittent flashes grew stronger, and the periods of complete darkness less frequent.
“I do believe it’s getting into the air,” Norah murmured. “I never heard of phosphorescence in the air, but that doesn’t say it may not be there!” She leaned further. “There!—that flash wasn’t in the water, I’m sure.”
It had not seemed so—still it was a little difficult to tell where the water ended and the dark bulk of the ship began. She watched, keenly interested; this was a new natural phenomenon—something to tell dad and the boys in the morning. The little flashes in the air came again; and at the same moment, far below, a curl of phosphorescence on a long wave.
“Why!” said Norah, in amazement—“why, it’s quite different. It’s not the same light at all!”
It was not the same. The glimmer on the water was a pure white radiance—almost the ghost of light; but this flash in the air was quite another thing. It came more regularly now; and Norah, searching the side of the ship with wide eyes of curiosity, saw that its origin seemed to be in one place alone; she could not tell how it came. Flash—flash—flash. Then comprehension swooped upon her, and she gasped in amazed horror.
“Why!—it’s some one signalling!”
The flashes came and went, intermittently, yet with a certain regularity. It was puzzling; she could not see their beginning, or what caused them, and yet they were there—in the air, more than coming from the ship; ghostly, mysterious rays. Still, the longer Norah watched, the more certain she felt that this was something wrong—something coming stealthily from the steamer—sending a hidden message over the water.
She slipped down, and stood inside her cabin, breathing quickly. Her first impulse, to ring for the night-steward, she put aside; she must be more certain first. The night-steward was an unintelligent person, and might raise a wild alarm, or simply laugh at her; and neither alternative seemed to meet the case. She must be quite certain before taking any one into her confidence.
Her little electric torch came into her mind. She found it, and managed to wriggle one small shoulder and arm as well as her head, through the port-hole; then, twisting to obtain a clear view along the side of the ship, she pressed the button. The little beam shot out and for an instant she could see the dark hull and the long line of ports like black eye-holes. The second from her own was obscured by what Norah recognised as a wind-scoop—the long tin funnel, like a grocer’s mammoth scoop, with which each cabin was fitted. They used them in the tropics, her steward had told her, screwed into each port to project outwards and catch more air and so suck it into the cabin. This wind-scoop was fitted in the wrong way; its wide part uppermost, so that the port-hole was completely screened from the deck above. It was only a second that Norah looked, but that glance was enough. She released the button of the torch, and wriggled back into the cabin.