“Oh, Lord!” said Jim, disgustedly, his head through the port-hole. “That’s finished him, I guess.”
The flashes of light ceased abruptly. Silence fell again—and then Mr. Linton’s voice.
“What’s that? Are you all right, Norah?”
“Yes, she’s all right,” answered Wally, ruefully—his bruises nothing in comparison with his deep abasement. “Jim’s here, sir—come in. We’re spy-hunting, and I’ve spoilt the show. Oh, I am a blithering ass!”
“But what on earth——?” began Mr. Linton, justifiably bewildered. Norah whispered a hasty explanation.
“You couldn’t help it,” she finished, consolingly to Wally. “I ought to have remembered about the rug.”
“I ought to have been careful where I was going,” said the disconsolate Wally. “Trust me to mess up a good thing!—why ever did you wake me? He might have been in irons now, but for me! I ought to be put in ’em myself.” He sat down on the edge of the berth and groaned in a whisper.
“Cheer up,” said Jim, coming softly from the port-hole. “The show’s over for to-night, I expect, but I really think he’s given himself away—the flashes stopped the instant the noise came, and after a few minutes the wind-scoop was very gently taken in. We’ll get him yet. Come on back to bed.”
“Aren’t you going to report it?”
“What have we got to report? There is no evidence now—not even a wind-scoop. Whoever is in that cabin has probably unbolted his door by this time, and if any one came to investigate, he would be sleeping peacefully. And it’s getting towards morning—he can’t do much more to-night, in any case.”