I slid down and went into the cabin. The Celebrity was in the corner by the companionway, with his head on the cushions and a book in his hand. And forward, under the low deck beams beyond the skylight, I beheld the crouching figure of my client. He had stripped off his coat and was busy at some task on the floor.
“They're whistling for us to stop,” I said to him.
“How near are they, old man?” he asked, without looking up. The perspiration was streaming down his face, and he held a brace and bit in his hand. Under him was the trap-door which gave access to the ballast below, and through this he had bored a neat hole. The yellow chips were still on his clothes.
“They're not two miles away,” I answered. “But what in mystery are you doing there?”
But he only laid a finger beside his nose and bestowed a wink in my direction. Then he took some ashes from his cigar, wetted his finger, and thus ingeniously removed all appearance of newness from the hole he had made, carefully cleaning up the chips and putting them in his pocket. Finally he concealed the brace and bit and opened the trap, disclosing the rough stones of the ballast. I watched him in amazement as he tore a mattress from an adjoining bunk and forced it through the opening, spreading it fore and aft over the stones.
“Now,” he said, regaining his feet and surveying the whole with undisguised satisfaction, “he'll be as safe there as in my new family vault.”
“But,” I began, a light dawning upon me.
“Allen, old man,” said Mr. Cooke, “come here.”
The Celebrity laid down his book and looked up: my client was putting on his coat.
“Come here, old man,” he repeated.