He looked from face to face, and there was a mutter of assent. He looked at the Saint again. “I endorse that verdict,” he said. “Blatherskite and brickdust!” said the Saint disparagingly. Bittle continued. “Then there is this man—Orace. He is also a man against whom some of you will bear a personal grudge. In any case, he is in Templar’s confidence, and therefore I say that he too must die.” “Pure banana oil,” jeered the Saint. “Finally,” said Bittle, “there is the girl. I propose to marry her myself, and Maggs will conduct the service as soon as the sentence has been carried out upon Templar and Orace.” He picked up a revolver from the table and waved it meaningly. “If there is anyone here—Maggs included—who objects to that, he can speak now.” Nobody moved. “Scat!” remarked the Saint. “Is that all the protest even our redoubtable Mr. Templar can make?” Bittle sneered. “I’m disappointed—you’ve talked so much about what you were going to do to all of us that I was expecting something interesting.” Simon yawned. “Before I die,” he said, “may I tell you my celebrated joke about a man called Carn? I wonder if you’ve heard it before? There was once a physician called Carn, but nobody cared worth a darn—if a man said ‘By Heck! That bloke might be a ’tec!’ the others would simply say ‘Garn!’ And yet it happens to be true. Isn’t it odd?” “Patricia”—Bittle rolled the name out with relish—“has already told me that story. If it is any comfort to you, I can assure you that it will only make me more careful of her health. The same ultimatum which brought you into my power will, I think, discourage Carn. It will certainly be an awkward dilemma for him, but I imagine that his humanity will triumph over his sense of duty.” “If that is so,” said Simon slowly, “I think he will be sure to give the order to fire—and blow this ship and everyone on board to smithereens.” Bittle shrugged, and signed to one of the men whom Orace had floored. “We will start with the servant,” he said. “Yah!” gibed Orace. “Yer a lotter thunderin’ ’eroes, you are! Undo me ’ands, and cummaht on the deck, any sixeryer, an’ I’ll showyer wotter rough-’ouse feels like!” Beads of perspiration broke out on the man’s face as he slowly raised the revolver. “Sorlright, sir,” Orace ground out. “Don’ think I care a damn fer wot ennyer these bleedin’ barstids do. . . . Shoot, yer maggot! Wotcha skeered of? ’Fraid I’ll bite yer? . . . Git on wiv it, an’ be blarsted to yer!” “Wait!” The Saint’s mildest voice scarcely masked the whiplash crack of his command, and the man lowered his gun. Bittle turned to him. “Have you, after all, something to say before the sentence is carried out?” he inquired ironically. “Perhaps you would like to go down on your knees and beg me to spare you? Your prayers will not move me, but the spectacle of Mr. Templar grovelling at my feet would entertain me vastly. . . .” “Not this journey,” said the Saint.