"Yes, sir. He came up a short time back." "Throw anything overboard?" "Yes, sir. He had a bundle, and dropped it over the lee quarter." "That's all right. Keep your mouth shut until I talk with you." I went below, shocked and horrified beyond my powers of self-analysis. Lance had murdered the child born to the woman he had won and despised. And here on the scene was Dunbar, who had worshiped this woman as an abstract ideal, whose life had been saved by this murderer, and who was under such heavy obligations of gratitude that his course of conduct was problematical. I could not foresee the solution. I did not know what Dunbar would do. I sought my wife and told her. She could not advise me nor help me. I hunted for Lance, and found him, locked in his stateroom. "Let me in," I said. "I want to talk with you." He opened the door, and I entered. He was ghastly pale, wild-eyed--drunk. "Have a drink, Doc," he stuttered. "Of course, you know that I've queered the case--that things are all right, now, and that when we get back she can live her life and I can live mine." "You will live your life," I said, "as a convict, sentenced to life imprisonment, unless a more merciful decree of the court shall send you to the electric chair." "Oh, have a drink. It's all right. The evidence is out of the way. Now, I'm willing to cut her out--to have nothing more to do with her, and she can do what she likes, get married, or remain an old maid. I'm through. I've made good. Her reputation hasn't suffered, because nobody knows, except you, and I, and your wife. Well, what's the use of talking? Just keep still, and we'll go back to New York. She can go home, and the whole thing will end." "Don't flatter yourself," I answered grimly. "There is a man on deck that you will have to deal with--a man who has loved this girl for years, who knows your position, and who will know of the crime you have committed. You are a murderer, and you will have to deal with John Dunbar." "What have I got to do with him? He's my skipper, to do as I tell him." "I'll see about that." I left him and sought Dunbar, who stood on the weather quarter, alone. The same man was at the wheel, and I raised my hand warningly as I caught his eye. He nodded, as though he comprehended. "Dunbar," I said, as I reached his side, "has the captain of a ship, or yacht, the power to put the owner of the craft in irons?" "Yes," he answered, slowly, the words seeming to struggle through his set teeth, "if the owner violates the law in any way, or threatens by his acts the destruction of property or life." "Then put George Lance in irons for the murder of his own child." He started, and looked intently into my face. "He threw the child overboard within half an hour of its birth." "Then, Doctor," he answered, slowly, "it seems that he does not mean to marry her." "Most certainly not. I gave up that hope long ago." "He will cast her adrift to live this thing down as she can, I suppose."