Stellan put on an old oilskin and went up on the captain’s bridge:
“Are you quite sure of the chart?” he asked the man at the wheel.
“Yes, sir, I was born in this neighbourhood.”
Between the seas Stellan took the opportunity of looking down into the engine room. Because he had his suspicions of Laura’s vibration. The mechanic, who was a handsome dark youth, might also have something to do with it.
Stellan was an old gambler, who was very frightened of leaving anything to chance.
The rocking of the boat soon made Laura leave the fumes from the engine room and quietly creep into the saloon.
They were approaching Järnö. Tall and foreboding rose the dark, rusty-looking hill surmounted by its log castle. The boat steered straight for the entrance to the harbour.
Was the madman really going to shoot? Not even through his Feiss-glasses could Stellan distinguish any sign of life.
Bang! A shot rang out above the lapping of the waves but nobody saw where it went.
“One ought to come here in warships,” the man mumbled.