“Get a rifle, Mr. Morton, and stand ready to shoot him through the skylight. But I will first signal the Siva for orders.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” said the first officer cheerily.
“Something wrong on board the Esmeralda, sir; she is signaling us,” said the first officer of the Siva to the captain.
Morning, who was conversing with a Russian admiral, overheard the speaker and came forward to where the signal officer—the code spread before him—had just answered, “Ready to receive signal.”
The little scarlet flag in the hand of the signal officer on the foretop gallant yard of the Esmeralda rapidly spelled out the message.
“Baron Von Eulaw and wife came on board as we were starting. He has delirium tremens, and is locked in cabin with her. Refuses to board launch, and threatens to shoot her if we break down door. We can kill him with a rifle through the skylight. We wait orders.”
The face of David Morning was white with the whiteness of death, but, with a voice in which there was scarcely a tremor, he addressed himself to the commander of the Siva.
“Captain, how far are we from the Esmeralda?”
“About a mile, sir.”
“How long will it be before the explosion?”