"Go to your room, dear," I said, "and leave this to me."
She obeyed me and I went on deck. The yacht was hove to, under a close-reefed mainsail, a double-reefed foresail, and the jib, with the bonnet off. Forward, the watch on deck walked back and forth in twos and threes, clad in snug oilskins and unmindful of the bombardment of spume and spindrift. The mate was amidships, looking aloft and to windward, and aft near the wheel was Dunbar, staring moodily into the storm. I waited until he stepped forward to speak to the mate, then approached the man at the wheel.
"Has Mr. Lance been on deck?" I said, nonchalantly.
"Yes, sir. He came up a short time back."
"Throw anything overboard?"
"Yes, sir. He had a bundle, and dropped it over the lee quarter."
"That's all right. Keep your mouth shut until I talk with you."
I went below, shocked and horrified beyond my powers of self-analysis. Lance had murdered the child born to the woman he had won and despised. And here on the scene was Dunbar, who had worshiped this woman as an abstract ideal, whose life had been saved by this murderer, and who was under such heavy obligations of gratitude that his course of conduct was problematical. I could not foresee the solution. I did not know what Dunbar would do.
I sought my wife and told her. She could not advise me nor help me. I hunted for Lance, and found him, locked in his stateroom.
"Let me in," I said. "I want to talk with you."