“I’ve--I’ve got something on my mind,” the operator groaned inarticulately. “I’ve--I’ve got something to tell you.” Even then, when I was concerned with my own fate, I wondered what the little man could be keeping from the world in his narrow bosom. Something trivial, I knew, that would appear ludicrous in the light of the impending tragedy. But Breese had come over to us. He looked down upon the two kneeling figures with contemptuous wrath. “Praying!” he shouted. “Why don’t you go to work--get that wireless going? Damn cowards!” “Yes, you two! Great revival meeting you’re putting on,” Rice chimed in. “It makes me sick to look at you!” “Don’t listen to them,” counselled the Russian. “Pray, my son.” “Get up!” shouted Breese hysterically. “Stop it, I tell you!” “I won’t,” cried the mechanic. “I won’t. I got something to tell. I got something on my mind. I’m going to tell. You can’t stop me. I’ve been listening to all of you. I didn’t know--” he gasped for breath. “I thought--about Mrs. Breese--I----” “What about Mrs. Breese?” Smith asked quietly. “I--I--don’t look at me like that--I--” He moaned as if in pain. Suddenly the flash-light upon the table was hurled to the floor. We were plunged in darkness. “Go on,” cried the Russian. “Quick--what about Mrs. Breese? Who killed her?” “Wait, can’t you?” the mechanic cried. “I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you----” A revolver shot boomed in my ear. I heard the man groan. I heard his body fall to the floor. Suddenly, miraculously, the lights flared up in the room and through the ship! The Russian was kneeling over the prone figure. He raised his head, and his sharp little eyes travelled over the room. “He’s dead,” said the Russian slowly. CHAPTER XIX THE MURDER ON THE YACHT Before any of us could move, before we could realize what had happened, the stilled engines of the yacht were throbbing once more, and we were ploughing ahead. The storm still raged, but now our craft cut the waters with disdain. But no one moved for a moment. We were all staring in grim fascination at the absurd figure of the humdrum little operator upon the floor. He seemed so unreal there. Breese was the first to cry out to the rest of us the inexplicable fact that our craft had suddenly taken on life. Then, as I recall the hectic moments, Rice ran to the window, as if he did not believe his senses. Others followed him--that is, the elder Breese did, and the actor. The Countess still stood as if in a dream. The Count maintained his solitary position in the corner. All our movements, now that I try to reconstruct them, had the unearthly quality of a dream. Then I heard the actor call: “We’re saved! Hang it all, we’re saved!” He slobbered in his relief. Tears streaked his cheeks. The Countess cried out, as if she were waking. Then I realized the Count was at her side. She was in his arms, and laughing and crying in turn in her hysteria. “Take her to her cabin,” Perutkin ordered. “The rest of you stay here.”