“For—us?” she asked, looking at me. The men were gathered about the wheel aft, and were out of ear-shot. Mrs. Sloane had dropped into a steamer-chair, and was lying back with closed eyes.
“Yes, Mrs. Johns.”
“Where have you put them?”
I pointed to where the jolly-boat, on the port side of the ship, swung on its davits.
“And the mate, Mr. Singleton?”
“He is in the forward house.”
“What did you do with the—the weapon?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“Morbid curiosity,” she said, with a lightness of tone that rang false to my ears. “And then—naturally, I should like to be sure that it is safely overboard, so it will not be”—she shivered—“used again.”
“It is not overboard, Mrs. Johns,” I said gravely. “It is locked in a safe place, where it will remain until the police come to take it.”