The next moment she was looking down at his prostrate form, and she found that she was trembling. To embark on an evening’s amateur piracy—even to the extent of holding up the skipper at the end of a gun—even to putting out a recalcitrant cook in fair fight—is one thing. To strike a man down in cold blood is another, especially when you do it for the first time in your uneventful life. She feared that she might have killed him, but a rapid examination showed that he was still breathing, though she reckoned by the vim she had put into the blow that he would have no interest in the entertainment for a long time. She regained her feet, considerably relieved. “Pull yourself together, Patricia Holm!” she admonished herself. “This isn’t a vicarage tea-party—you can’t afford to be squeamish. They’ll do worse to you if they get you, so let ’em have it while you can!” Now for Bittle. . . . She locked Mr. Maggs in, and stowed the key away by a cleat, where it could be recovered later if required. Then she crossed to the other door, turned the handle noiselessly, and suddenly flung the door wide. The cabin was in darkness. She searched for the electric light switch, and the darkness was wiped out in a glare that half blinded her, but she was able to see that the cabin was empty. An open valise was on the bunk, and some clothes had been unpacked, and lay strewn about. A faint odour of fresh tobacco proved that the occupant had not long been gone. Then an ash-tray on the ledge of the disappearing wash-basin caught her eye, and she discovered the origin of the smoky smell, for the cigar had only just been lighted. Would Bittle have left his cigar behind him? An indefinable suspicion of impending danger tingled up her spine like the caress of a thousand needle-points of ice. . . . Or did it mean that he would be back in a moment? If so, she was asking for trouble by keeping the light on and standing full in the blaze of it. Hurriedly she clicked the lever over, and darkness descended again. She spun round with a start, and saw him at her shoulder, but he was too quick for her. He had caught her two guns, one in each hand, and torn them out of her grasp before she could move. Chapter XVIII The Saint Returns Bittle pushed the girl roughly into the cabin and slammed the door. “Now let’s have a look at you.” He was in his shirt sleeves, and the fact that he had loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar for comfort in the sultriness of the evening increased the ruffianly effect of his appearance. John Bittle was one of the men who are only tolerable when conventionally dressed. And his round red face was no longer genial. His gaze stripped her from crown to toe, and the girl went hot under its slow significant deliberateness.