Phil felt sorry for the older man. He would willingly take the blame on himself, if that could have helped matters. 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. “I beg your pardon, Phil,” he added soberly, “but your words were droll. Tell me about it?” Phil unburdened himself to his roommate; telling of the noise that he had heard in the handling room the day before; of his suspicions, and of the fatal mistake he had made in not confiding in Lazar before the firing commenced; then of the accident and Lazar’s accusations. “But why should he accuse you?” Sydney asked aghast. “I don’t know, but he has,” Phil answered, “and I was struck dumb. I can’t explain to him now. It would only make things worse.” Sydney thought deeply. “Phil, the idea is preposterous,” he said decidedly; “he certainly has better sense than to accuse you openly of this.” “That’s the worst of it,” Phil answered sorrowfully; “all he need do is to cast a suspicion on me and then I must endeavor to clear myself of the suspicion, and I can’t. If I tell what I have told you, those who are ready to believe I am capable of doing such a cowardly act to spite Lazar, will see all the more proof that I am guilty.” “It surely is complicated,” Sydney replied. Phil opened his desk drawer and picked up the locket, holding it out to Sydney. “This is what I found in the handling room. There’s a girl’s picture inside. It doesn’t belong to any of the turret’s crew, at least none have claimed it.” “This was dropped by the man who cut the wire,” Sydney mused aloud, “and this face may help us find him.”