“_t-h-r-e-e h-u-n-d-r-e-d a-n-d e-i-g-h-t g-l-o-u-c-e-s-t-e-r c-i-t-y h-u-n-d-r-e-d a-n-d f-i-v-e r-e-s-c-u-e-d o-t-h-e-r s-h-i-p-s f-o-u-r h-u-n-d-r-e-d a-n-d t-h-i-r-t-e-e-n i-n a-l-l_” “All men?” queried Jensen. “_t-w-e-n-t-y-f-i-v-e w-o-m-e-n_” “My God!” muttered Lyngstrand, in a sudden vivid remembrance that stabbed him like a pain. He glanced at Horst. Jensen glanced also, and was merciless. “Are you all here?” he asked. “_y-e-s_” There was a little pause, “_h-u-n-d-r-e-d-s m-o-r-e I d-o-n-t k-n-o-w d-r-o-w-n-e-d o-t-h-e-r s-u-n-k s-h-i-p-s a-l-l h-e-r-e_” Lyngstrand shivered, looked around him uneasily. Jensen’s voice scarcely betrayed a tremor as he pursued. “What have you come for?” “_w-e h-a-v-e c-o-m-e f-o-r h-i-m_” “No!--no!” screamed Horst, suddenly. “No!--_Ach, Gott, schütze mich!_” Both Lyngstrand and Jensen had a sense of inaudible mocking laughter in the air about them. There was an awful silence. The raps recommenced spontaneously. “_t-e-l-l h-i-m t-h-e-y a-r-e f-i-l-i-n-g p-a-s-t h-i-m i-d-e-n-t-i-f-y-i-n-g h-i-m_” Jensen turned to Horst. “You hear?” he asked, grimly. But Horst, with a blood-curdling scream of terror, had flung himself at the charthouse door, thrown it open. They heard the hiss and sough of the dark seas. He plunged out, blindly, head-foremost. Then, just beyond the threshold, he stopped, recoiled, staggered back into the charthouse. “No!” he gasped, hoarsely. “No!--_I can’t face them! I can’t face them!_--I can’t die!--I dare not!” He shook in a palsy of the faculties. His eyes agonizedly sought their unsympathetic faces. The German submarine commander is a pariah among seafaring men, whatever their nationality. He realized it, hopelessly, as he met their hard eyes. With a sob of self-pity, he stumbled across to a corner of the charthouse, sank down upon the seat, covered his face with his hands. Lyngstrand’s young features were sternly set as he glanced at him. Then he took a long breath, the preparatory oxygen-renewal of the man who dares an experiment that will tax him. He rapped the wireless “call-up” upon the table. “Can the others communicate also?” he asked, loudly, in English. He, also, was trembling. The answer came at once. “_o-n-l-y t-h-r-o-u-g-h m-e_” There was a slight pause, then the raps recommenced again, “_l-a-d-y h-e-r-e h-a-s a m-e-s-s-a-g-e f-o-r p-e-t-e-r_” the raps hesitated “_p-e-t-e-r f-u-n-n-y n-a-m-e c-a-n-t c-a-t-c-h i-t_----” Lyngstrand’s face went deathly white. “Yes,” he gasped, just only able to speak, “--Peter--yes--go on!” He looked at the table as though expecting to see the hand that was rapping out the message. Tap-tap-tap, it came. “_p-e-t-e-r l-i-n-g-s-t-r-a-n-d_” “Yes--here!” he gasped. “Go on!--who is it?” “_m-a-r-y t-i-l-l-o-t-s-o-n_” He reeled against the table, clutched at it.