He opened the door, and I entered. He was ghastly pale, wild-eyed—drunk.
"Have a drink, Doc," he stuttered. "Of course, you know that I've queered the case—that things are all right, now, and that when we get back she can live her life and I can live mine."
"You will live your life," I said, "as a convict, sentenced to life imprisonment, unless a more merciful decree of the court shall send you to the electric chair."
"Oh, have a drink. It's all right. The evidence is out of the way. Now, I'm willing to cut her out—to have nothing more to do with her, and she can do what she likes, get married, or remain an old maid. I'm through. I've made good. Her reputation hasn't suffered, because nobody knows, except you, and I, and your wife. Well, what's the use of talking? Just keep still, and we'll go back to New York. She can go home, and the whole thing will end."
"Don't flatter yourself," I answered grimly. "There is a man on deck that you will have to deal with—a man who has loved this girl for years, who knows your position, and who will know of the crime you have committed. You are a murderer, and you will have to deal with John Dunbar."
"What have I got to do with him? He's my skipper, to do as I tell him."
"I'll see about that."
I left him and sought Dunbar, who stood on the weather quarter, alone. The same man was at the wheel, and I raised my hand warningly as I caught his eye. He nodded, as though he comprehended.
"Dunbar," I said, as I reached his side, "has the captain of a ship, or yacht, the power to put the owner of the craft in irons?"
"Yes," he answered, slowly, the words seeming to struggle through his set teeth, "if the owner violates the law in any way, or threatens by his acts the destruction of property or life."