“Hush,” I warned her; “he is there. He heard something, but the helmsman cannot leave the wheel.”
She was stooping to the lock again.
“You are sure it was locked?”
“The bolt is still shot.” I showed her.
“Then—where is the key?”
“The key!”
“Certainly. Find the key, and you will find the man who locked you in.”
“Unless,” I reminded her, “it flew out when I broke the lock.”
“In that case, it will be on the floor.”
But an exhaustive search of the cabin floor discovered no key. Jones, seeing us searching, helped, his revolver in one hand and a lighted match in the other, handling both with an abandon of ease that threatened us alternately with fire and a bullet. But there was no key.