He stood gazing at it for a long time. His thought was travelling rapidly. In a moment he had realised that this piece of wood belonged to none of the open cases he had examined. It was probably something left over from some previous voyage, and, remaining in its corner, had so escaped the careful obliteration of address and markings to which the remainder of the stores had been submitted.
But the name of the ship on the address startled him beyond words. Imperial of Bristol. It was the name of the ship in which Claire’s brother Jim had set sail for home. How came it on board the Limpet of Boston?
Again came that gesture of perplexity. Then of a sudden his eyes lit. He moved directly under the lantern and read again the address on the card. This time he spelt the name of the ship over quite slowly and aloud. Then he began another spelling and it was the name of the wreck itself.
“L-I-M-P-E-T,” he muttered. Then after a pause: “I-M-P-E. Yes. Then ther’s the L. sure. Boston. Bristol. Gee! Looks like it’s——”
He broke off with a startled upward glance in the direction of the hatch above. Just for an instant he remained listening acutely. Then he dropped the wood from his hands and it fell with a clatter on the deck at his feet. He reached up and snatched the lantern from the hook and extinguished it. There was a sound. It was the faint stealing sound as of some one cautiously approaching along the deck above him.
Who could it be? Loby? Sasa? No. He had no expectation of their return till afternoon. Claire? He remembered Claire’s unexpected visit. She was not likely to repeat it. It would not be Claire. No. Who then? He remembered the ghostly shadow that had terrified Claire and the half-breed. And, for the first time in his life, he experienced that thrill of the nerves which the uncanny rarely fails to inspire even in the hardiest.
Then came the full and unpleasant realisation of his position. One glance round him in the twilight warned him of his disadvantage. Here, in the lazaret, he was like a rat in a trap. He had no idea of who it could be above. But that which his senses had told him left him with a feeling of detestation for such a position. He turned promptly to the iron ladder.
“You’re covered, McLagan. You’re covered sure as death. The moment you show your darn head above that hole I’ll blow it plumb to small meat.”
McLagan drew back. There was no thrill of the nerves in him now. It was not the uncanny that held him. He knew that voice on the instant. It was the voice of Cy Liskard. And he understood that the man had a score to settle with him, and had come to settle it.
His position was desperate. He was armed. His automatic was fully loaded. But it was useless. Quite useless. For the man above had not shown himself in the aperture of the trap.