“My God!” he murmured to himself, his eyes closing, his teeth grinding upon one another in an agony of emotion. Then, with a supreme effort of self-control, he asked, loudly: “The message? Give it me!” “_s-h-e s-a-y-s s-h-e s-u-r-e l-o-v-e-s y-o-u s-t-i-l-l a-n-d i-s w-a-i-t-i-n-g f-o-r y-o-u_” “Mary!” The cry burst from him, sobbingly, on a note of poignant anguish. Jensen felt the tears start to his eyes. Horst cowered still, face hidden, in his corner. There was a long moment in which Lyngstrand failed to bring another sound to utterance. He swayed as though about to faint. Then once more he mastered himself. “What--what happened?” he asked, unsteadily. “How did she die? Was she torpedoed?” “_s-h-e s-a-y-s s-t-e-a-m-e-r t-r-o-n-d-h-j-e-m s-u-n-k g-u-n-f-i-r-e r-e-s-c-u-e-d s-m-a-l-l b-o-a-t b-y g-l-o-u-c-e-s-t-e-r c-i-t-y a-f-t-e-r-w-a-r-d t-o-r-p-e-d-o-e-d_” Lyngstrand reeled with closed eyes. He had a vivid vision of the torn wreck in the depths beneath them, carnivorous fish darting where their anchor grappled its untenanted bridge. “Did--did they have a chance?” he asked. “_n-i-g-h-t w-i-t-h-o-u-t w-a-r-n-i-n-g_” came the answer. Lyngstrand drew another deep breath, glanced at the motionless Horst. “And--and the man--the man who sank her?” “_k-a-p-i-t-a-n-l-e-u-t-n-a-n-t h-o-r-s-t_” There was a terrible precision in those raps. They ceased. There was a deathly stillness. Through long moments, not one of the three men in the charthouse moved. Then Lyngstrand turned slowly. He took three steps toward Captain Horst, stood over him. The only sounds were the creaking of gear as the _Upsal_ rose and subsided on the swell, the swish and suck of the long waves that ran past her in the darkness beyond the open charthouse door. Lyngstrand’s mouth had set in a thin line. His lips, compressed, opened but slightly as he spoke. “Captain Horst,” he said, with grim distinctness, “you are certainly going to die. I give you the privilege of the warning you did not extend to your victims.” Horst looked up suddenly. His eyes, blue still, but crazed with terror, fixed themselves upon the gray eyes that met them pitilessly. His mouth moved under the little red moustache, but no sound came from it. Lyngstrand continued, an edge of fierce contempt upon his hard voice. “I even give you a choice: You can, if you like, go out there”--he pointed through the open door to the rayless night--“and throw yourself overboard----” Horst sprang to his feet, recoiled into the extreme corner of the charthouse. “No!” he screamed. “No!” “--or I shall kill you myself,” pursued Lyngstrand, evenly. Horst’s face contorted suddenly with demoniac passion. Jensen, who had approached and was watching him closely, saw his hand dart to the pocket of his jacket, and he flung himself forward just as the revolver cracked.