‘Our information is certain!’ declared Jonsen. Marpole at last went white and began to sweat. It took even Fear an extraordinarily long time to penetrate his thick skull. But he denied that he had any treasure on board. ‘Is that your answer?’ said Jonsen. He drew a heavy pistol from his side pocket. ‘If you do not tell us the truth, your life shall pay the forfeit.’ His voice was peculiarly gentle, and mechanical, as if he did not attach much meaning to what he said. ‘Do not expect mercy, for this is my profession, and in it I am inured to blood.’ A frightful squawking from the deck above told Marpole that his chickens were being moved to new quarters. In an agony of feeling Marpole told him that he had a wife and children, who would be left destitute if his life was taken. Jonsen, with rather a perplexed look on his face, put the gun back in his pocket, and the two of them began to search for themselves, at the same time stripping the saloon and cabins of everything they contained: firearms, wearing apparel, the bedclothes, and even (as Marpole with a rare touch of accuracy mentioned in his report) the bell-pulls. Overhead there was a continuous bumping: the rolling of casks, cases, etc. ‘Remember,’ Jonsen went on over his shoulder while he searched, ‘money cannot recall life, nor in the least avail you when you are dead. If you regard your life in the least, at once acquaint me with the hiding-place, and your life shall be safe.’ Marpole’s only reply was again to invoke the thought of his wife and children (he was, as a matter of fact, a widower: and his only relative, a niece, would be the better off by his death to the tune of some ten thousand pounds). But this reiteration seemed to give the mate an idea: and he began to talk to his chief rapidly in a language Marpole had never even heard. For a moment a curious glint came into Jonsen’s eye: but soon he was chuckling in the sentimentalest manner, and rubbing his hands. The mate went on deck to prepare things. Marpole had no inkling of what was afoot. The mate went on deck to prepare his plan, whatever it was: and Jonsen busied himself with a last futile search for the hiding-place, in silence. Presently the mate shouted down to him, and he ordered Marpole on deck. Poor Marpole groaned. Unloading cargo is inclined to be a messy business anyway: but these visitors had been none too careful. There is no smell in the world worse than when molasses and bilge-water marry: now it was let loose like ten thousand devils. His heart was almost broken when he saw the havoc that had been made with the cargo: broken cases, casks, bottles, all about the deck: everything in the greatest confusion: tarpaulins cut to pieces: hatches broken. From the deck-house came the piercing voice of Laura: ‘_I want to come out!_’