Marston saw it, and he was a broken man. For a moment, that is. My eyes must have shown what was in my mind as they finally met his. He straightened like a shot, and his sullen, strained face suddenly flushed as red as fire. He stood there, daring me to say something, and hating me worse than ever because of what had happened. And as I stood there I was utterly convinced that I was looking at as low and rotten a murderer as one would meet in a tour of the United States, where most of the murderers are. But I held my tongue, except to say-- “Sick or no sick, you’re going in a boat with me and we’ll look over Fernald’s ship.” He didn’t say ah, yes, or no; didn’t expostulate, explain or try to clear himself. With a baleful glare in his eyes and a shadow on his heavy face he went with me in a Ford, driven by a kid who tried to break all speed records, and we got a boat a half mile away. We met Fernald’s party on the way. Fernald transfered to my flat-bottomed dreadnaught, while Bailey went on toward shore. The boy was white and sick, the freckles standing out on his face as if one was looking at them through a stereoscope. I just asked one question-- “Did you inspect these ships from tail to nose last night?” “Yes, sir!” yelled Bailey, his eyes like those of a madman. Then they sought Marston’s and so did Fernald’s, only Les was calmly curious and appraising, where the overwrought youngster was half insane. “Beat it on, Bailey, and don’t talk a word,” I told him. I told Les what I’d found. Marston brooded in one end of the boat while the Boundville veteran, rowing us, bent to his work and asked one question after another which never got answered. Well, exactly the same things had been done to Fernald’s ship as to mine. “We’ll talk when we get back,” I told him, jerking my head toward Marston. George William caught the gesture. A wild, leaping fire flamed in his eyes, and a shaking paw was extended toward me. “I know what you’ll do!” he snarled. “You’ve got me now, and you’ll railroad me to Leavenworth, ---- you!” “Shut up, Marston!” I snapped. “Remember who you’re talking to!” There was a second of tension in that boat which was enough to make one’s flesh crawl. Marston, his full face like a dark demon’s, sat like a statue, arm still out-thrust toward me. “Listen, Marston,” I said quietly. “No one holds you responsible for this. My opinion is that the men who brought you coffee put dope of some kind in it; that you slept like the dead, while they did the work, and that what they put in the java is reponsible for you being sick. I don’t like you, and I never did and never will, as a man, but you’re a soldier with a good record, and as far as I’m concerned you’re above suspicion.” His big body relaxed suddenly, as if he had gone suddenly limp. A queer look leaped into his eyes, a sort of calculating gleam, as it were.