“But this is strange!” exclaimed Perutkin. “Are you sure?” “Sure?” muttered the operator. “I’m not sure of anything any more.” “Then,” said the Russian, “there is a maniac aboard. I am reminded of the famous Sebastopol tragedy, where someone with a homicidal humor played just such tricks upon a small passenger boat. Utterly destroyed it. It is curious. Very curious.” “What are you talking about?” exploded Rice. “What maniac? We know who’s on board.” “But--do we?” countered the Russian. “My friend, the Count, came here unseen. How do we know who else has come?” “Hang it all, find him then!” shrieked the actor, who had been listening open-mouthed. “If there’s a madman on board he’ll kill us all!” “It is very strange,” persisted the Russian quietly. “But in the Sebastopol case, twenty-one men, women and children were drowned thus. He crippled the radio, knocked a tremendous hole in her side, and completely ruined the engines.” “But why?” asked Smith. “For the maniacal delight of destruction,” the Russian replied calmly. “Here----” barked Rice. “What are you trying to do? Scare everybody? If there’s anybody on board, the crew’ll handle him fast enough.” “If they find him,” said the Russian. “Maniacs are cunning.” “But you don’t know there _is_ a maniac!” shouted Rice. He stopped short. Outside we heard the smash of wood upon wood. Resounding blows. Then the wash of waves. Suddenly a growl of many voices, and one purple oath. Perutkin hurried out. He was gone but a moment. When he returned he said gravely: “A curious accident! Our lifeboats have been washed overboard.” “But that’s impossible!” exclaimed Rice. “So I would think,” agreed the Russian. “I observed today that both boats were lashed fast. What are we to conclude?” “Conclude nothing!” cried Rice. “Get hold of the Captain. Let him search this boat from top to bottom. We’ll find out soon enough who’s been doing this!” Even as he spoke I was conscious that the lulling hum of the engines had died out. There was an empty silence, while the boat still tossed. “The engines have stopped!” announced the Russian. “Listen!” “We--we must be coming in!” quavered Breese hopefully. “We can’t be coming in!” the Russian contradicted, looking out of the window. “I see no sight of land, no harbor. Nothing but water and darkness.” “Then what’s he stopping for?” demanded Rice. “We’re not moving. Those engines are dead.” “I’ll find out!” volunteered the operator nervously. But Perutkin halted him. “No, you shall wait here. I shall myself investigate. It is high time.” Reluctantly the operator watched him go. He shuffled into a chair and sat down, nervously twisting his stubby fingers. He seemed decidedly ill at ease as he looked about him. A peal of thunder rolled over our heads. I shuddered, as if it were an ominous warning of disaster.