The yacht seemed to list and chairs slid. I clutched at the wall. I can only record my physical actions in that room. My mind, it seemed to me, was in a daze from the moment I had boarded the yacht. Finally the Russian came back. He walked slowly, with head bowed. He shut the door carefully behind him. “Gentlemen,” he announced gravely, “it is my duty to tell you that we are in great peril!” He paused. “Our engines have stopped. Our wireless is hopelessly smashed. Our lifeboats have been washed overboard. The ship lists dangerously, and is leaking. We are in the grip of a terrific storm--gentlemen,” he sank suddenly to his knees, “gentlemen, pray for your lives!” CHAPTER XVIII ONE OF YOU Perutkin made the sign of the cross, and lifted his voice in the chant of the Russian church. The melancholy litany seemed endless. I watched him in fascinated horror. The rest could not believe their eyes. Breese stumbled out through the door, calling incoherently for aid. But no answer came through the darkness. Someone shouted: “Lifebelts!” To me then the word meant nothing, nor to the rest of us, for we stood helplessly watching the top-hatted figure upon bended knee in the prayer we could not understand. Then the Russian stopped, and he drew himself up to his full height. “In my own tongue, and in the prayer of my mother, I have confessed my sins,” he said. “Now my heart is light. I can meet the Unknown without fear.” Once more he made the sign of the cross. “Stop it!” shrieked the actor. “Can’t you do something--somebody? I don’t want to die!” His voice died out in a wail. “You are white, Mr. Thomas,” said the Russian. “You shiver. You are afraid.” “Where’s the Captain?” Breese demanded. “Bring him here at once!” The yacht rolled maliciously and the old man seized a chair to steady himself. “There is only one Captain now,” responded the Russian gravely, “and Him I cannot bring. But He will come!” Rice stepped forward. “Things cannot be as bad as you say. I know this boat. She’s weathered worse storms than this!” “Perhaps,” said the Russian. “But this is her last storm. The sea is pouring into her. While we stand here, she is sinking. It is only a matter of minutes.” “I won’t believe it until the Captain says so!” snapped Rice. “Ask him!” challenged the Russian. “If you can find him in the dark.” Then he raised his voice. “It is the wrath of God. One of you killed cunningly and now all of us must die. So it is written, my friends.” “You’ve gone mad!” cried Breese. “I’ll get the Captain myself.” “I’ll go with you,” his son volunteered. “There is no need!” The Russian raised his hand. “Look!” He pointed to the window. The red and white glare of rockets flashed before our eyes. “I shall read for you!” said the Russian. “S.O.S. S.O.S. We have no wireless. We have no lifeboats. We are summoning aid.” Breese stood still, staring at the window. He tottered to a chair.