"What's up? Anything wrong in here?"
"Not that I know of, but the young lady reported Sanchez moving about in his stateroom and I think it safer to see to him at once."
"It's blacker than hell down thar."
"Yes; I don't understand it—wait here a minute until I strike a light."
I stumbled over something on the deck, as I groped forward, but with mind centered on the one object, did not pause until I had located the lantern. It blazed up brightly enough, its yellow flame illuminating the cabin, and the first thing I saw was the outstretched figure of the sailor almost between my feet. I sprang back, giving utterance to a cry, which brought Watkins to me, and the two of us stared at the grewsome object and then about into the wavering shadows. There was nothing to see but the dead man, lying on his face motionless, blood still oozing from an ugly knife wound in his back. We needed to ask no questions, imagine nothing—the overturned chair, the stricken sailor told the whole story. He had been treacherously stuck from behind, the blade driven home by a strong hand, and was dead before he fell to the deck. It had been silent, vengeful murder, and the assassin had left no trace. Who could it have been? Not Gunsaules surely—the steward lacked both nerve and strength for such a deed. Then there was but one to suspect—Silva Sanchez! I stood there dumb, gazing at the dead man, realizing all this dimly, yet conscious only of thankfulness that the victim had not been Dorothy Fairfax.
"He's dead, sir," growled Watkins, turning the fellow over with his
foot, until the ghastly face stared up at the deck beams overhead.
"Stabbed to the heart frum behind. Look a yere—that wus sum slash.
Who, the hell do yer suppose did it?"
"That is ours to find out. The deed has just been done, for blood is still flowing. Let him alone Watkins and come with me—the murderer can't be far off."
I flung open the pantry door, but one glance inside told me that Gunsaules had vanished. On the deck lay the strands of rope with which he had been secured—-they had been severed by a sharp knife, the ends discolored with blood stains. I held these out to Watkins.
"Cut since the murder," I said harshly, "and by the same knife."
"Who was in here, sir."