These charitable thoughts were however quickly stifled by the humiliating words of his superior officer.
“This looks like your work,” he hissed in Phil’s ear. “I have no way to prove it, but it looks very black for you.”
“I, sir!” he gasped. Then the thought of the locket and his secret came to him. He stopped vexed and mortified.
It did look black, indeed.
Lazar gave him a swift glance of triumph as he turned away.
Phil directed the work of clearing away the wreck and as soon as the ship’s machinists had commenced on the repairs, he hunted up his friend to make a clean breast to him of the secret which had grown in a night from a mole-hill to the size of a mountain.
He found Sydney in his room, washing the evidence of target practice from his face and hands.
“I made a fine score,” Sydney cried joyously, without looking up, as Phil entered their small stateroom. “What on earth happened? Your turret started out finely; every shot hit the target, then suddenly you stopped shooting.”
“Everything happened,” answered Phil, sadly. “The ammunition hoist broke and Lazar thinks it’s my work, and the only way I can clear myself is to get myself further implicated.”
“Well, that certainly is Irish,” laughed Sydney heartily; then a view of his friend’s face cut short his mirth, for he saw that it was serious.