"I wasn't trying to pick up anybody," the young man faltered. Crawshay's fingers gripped him by the shoulder. His very determined-looking mouth had suddenly become a ring of steel. "If you don't give me a different answer in ten seconds, Robins, I'll blow your brains all over the cabin!" The young man broke. "I was trying to pick up the _Blucher_," he acknowledged. "That's exactly what I thought," Crawshay muttered. "That's the game, without a doubt. What are you? An Englishman?" "I am not!" was the almost fierce reply. "Blast England!" Crawshay looked into the black eyes, suddenly lit with an ugly fire, and nodded. "I understand," he said. "Robins, your name, eh? Any relation to the young Sinn Feiner who was shot in Dublin a few months ago?" "Brother." "That may save your life later on," Crawshay observed coolly. "Now you can do one of three things. You can come with me to the captain, be put in irons and shot as soon as we land--or before, if the _Blucher_ finds us; or you can send the message which I shall give you; or you can end your days where you sit." "What message?" the young man demanded. "You will send out a general call, as before, repeating the latitude and longitude with a difference of exactly three points, and you will repeat the altered course, only you will substitute the word 'south' for the word 'north.'" The young man's eyes suddenly gleamed as he turned towards the instrument, but Crawshay smiled with grim understanding. "Let me tell you that I understand the wireless," he said impressively. "You will give the message exactly as I have told you or we finish things up on the spot. I think you had better. It's a matter of compulsion, you know--in fact I'll explain matters to Mr. Jocelyn Thew, if you like." The young man's eyes were round with amazement. "Jocelyn Thew!" he repeated. "Precisely. You needn't look so terrified. It isn't you who have given away. Now what are you going to do?" The young man swung round to his instrument. Crawshay released his hand, stepping a little back. "You are going to send the message, then?" "Yes!" was the sullen reply. "Capital!" Crawshay exclaimed, cautiously subsiding into a chair. "Now you'll go on every ten minutes until I tell you to stop." Robins bent over his task, and again the crackling waves broke away from their prison. Once his finger hesitated. He glanced surreptitiously at Crawshay. "Four degrees south," Crawshay repeated softly. The night wore on. Every ten minutes the message was sent. Then there followed a brief silence, spent generally by Robins with his head drooped upon his clasped arms; by Crawshay in unceasing vigil. Just as the first faint gleam of daylight stole into the little turret chamber, came the long-waited-for reply. The young man wrote down the few lines and passed them over. Crawshay, who had risen to his feet, glanced at them, nodded, and thrust the paper into his pocket.