But he did not, at once, sleep. He lay for a while conning over the step he had taken. It was really very astute. He had returned the children, undoubtedly safe and sound: Marpole would be altogether discredited. Even to have landed them at Santa Lucia, his first intention, could never have closed the _Clorinda_ episode so completely, since the world at large would not have heard of it: and it would have been difficult to produce them, should need arise. Indeed, it had seemed to be a choice of evils: either he must carry them about always, as a proof that they were alive, or he must land them and lose control of them. In the first case, their presence would certainly connect him with the _Clorinda_ piracy of which he might otherwise go unsuspected: in the second, he might be convicted of their murder if he could not produce them. But this wonderful idea of his, now that he had carried it out successfully, solved both difficulties. It had been a near thing with that little bitch Margaret, though ... lucky the second boat had picked her up.... The light from the cabin lamp shone into the bunk, illuminating part of the wall defaced with Emily’s puerile drawings. As they caught his eye a frown gathered on his forehead: but as well a sudden twinge affected his heart. He remembered the way she had lain there, ill and helpless. He suddenly found himself remembering at least forty things about her--an overwhelming flood of memories. The pencil she had used was still among the bedding, and his fingers happened on it. There were still some white spaces not drawn on. Jonsen could only draw two things: ships, and naked women. He could draw any type of ship he liked, down to the least detail--any particular ship he had sailed in, even. In the same way he could draw voluptuous, buxom women, also down to the least detail: in any position, and from any point of view: from the front, from the back, from the side, from above, from below: his fore-shortening faultless. But set him to draw any third thing--even a woman with her clothes on--and he could not have produced a scribble that would have been even recognisable. He took the pencil: and before long there began to appear between Emily’s crude uncertain lines round thighs, rounder bellies, high swelling bosoms, all somewhat in the manner of Rubens. At the same time his mind was still occupied with reflections on his own astuteness. Yes, it had been a near thing with Margaret--it would have been awkward if, when he returned the party, there had been one missing. A recollection descended on his mind like a cold douche, something he had completely forgotten about till then. His heart sank--as well it might: ‘Hey!’ he called to Otto on the deck above. ‘What was the name of that boy who broke his neck at Santa? Jim--Sam--what was he called?’ Otto did not answer, except by a long-drawn-out whistle. _Chapter 10_