The ship’s lights blinked in my eyes as the fury of the storm increased. I saw Smith carefully making his way down the stairs toward us. “Well?” said the Russian. Smith nodded, with an air of self-satisfaction. “Mr. Rice wants to turn back,” said the Russian. “I know,” said Smith. “He’s still with the Captain. But it seems there are reasons why the Captain can’t follow orders. Rice thinks the skipper’s crazy.” Smith grinned exasperatingly. Another peal of thunder rolled in the sky, and through the windows I was startled by the accompanying flash of lighting. “This may be a joke on us, at that,” said Smith, blinking. “Nonsense!” retorted the Russian. “Rest easy, my friend. Everything is working famously.” Rice stumbled down the stairs, clutching the banister. When he reached our landing, I could see his face was purple. “Go up there and argue with that madman!” he shouted at Smith. “He won’t turn back!” “I’ve already done that,” Smith shrugged his shoulders. “But I wouldn’t worry, Mr. Rice. This boat can stand a heavier storm than this.” He drew out his cheap watch. “It’s ten minutes to twelve. Don’t you think you’d better summon the family to the deck for the ceremony?” Rice didn’t reply, but staggered to the first door, opened it, and then banged it behind him. “Excellent!” exclaimed the Russian. “We need very little now.” He stopped short, as the dapper figure of the Captain came down the stairs toward us. He was in his forties, with the sharp eye of the adventurer not uncommon in yacht skippers, and with none of the ponderous dignity that goes with commanders burdened with the responsibility of larger craft. His blue eyes twinkled merrily as he greeted Smith. “All’s well,” he chuckled. Apparently he was part of the conspiracy, too. I felt somewhat chagrined that a mere stranger had intervened in a case in which I felt a proprietary interest. “You won’t regret it, Captain,” Smith replied. The door opened, and Rice emerged. In his arms he clutched a blue urn. Here were the ashes of Mrs. Breese. The strange funeral party stumbled after him--the elder Breese, his daughter, very white and seemingly dazed, young Breese and the actor. The Captain bared his head. Smith tugged at the door to the deck. The wind howled in our ears. The mourners stumbled forward. Rice clutched his burden spasmodically. A driving rain beat our faces. The night was pitch black now. I heard the door slam behind us. I heard Perutkin’s voice boom out: “He, who has the ashes of Dora Breese, murdered by a fiend, unknown, will now cast them into the sea, as she desired!” I shivered involuntarily. I thought I heard a moan in the wind. Then there was a splash. The Countess cried out. She was near me. Smith opened the door hurriedly and as hurriedly the mourners stumbled to shelter. The strange funeral was over.