He came out, more dead than alive.
“Williams,” I said sternly, “I give you an hour to get rid of every ounce of liquor on the Ella. Remember, not a bottle is to be saved.”
“But Mistah Turner—”
“I’ll answer to Mr. Turner. Get it overboard before he gets around. And, Williams!”
“Well?”—sullenly.
“I’m going around after you, and if I find so much as a pint, I’ll put you in that room you have just left, and lock you in.”
He turned even grayer, and went into the storeroom.
A day later, and the crew would probably have resented what they saw that morning. But that day they only looked up apathetically from their gruesome work of sewing into bags of canvas the sheeted bodies on the deck, while a gray-faced Negro in a white coat flung over the rail cases of fine wines, baskets and boxes full of bottles, dozen after dozen of brandies and liquors, all sinking beyond salvage in the blue Atlantic.
CHAPTER IX.
PRISONERS
MY first thought had been for the women, and, unluckily, to save them a shock I had all evidences of the crime cleared away as quickly as possible. Stains that might have been of invaluable service in determining the murderer were washed away almost before they were dry. I realized this now, too late. But the axe remained, and I felt that its handle probably contained a record for more skillful eyes than mine to read, prints that under the microscope would reveal the murderer’s identity as clearly as a photograph.