crew, Charlie Jones had left the wheel and stood peering down, until
sharply ordered back. Williams, with a bandage on his head, and Tom,
the mulatto cook, were in the group.

I stood, revolver in hand, staring at the men. Among them, I felt
sure, was the murderer. But which one? All were equally pale,
equally terrified.

"Boys," I said, "Mr. Vail and your captain have been murdered. The
murderer must be on the ship--one of ourselves." There was a murmur
at that. "Mr. Singleton, I suggest that these men stay together in a
body, and that no one be allowed to go below until all have been
searched and all weapons taken from them."

Singleton had dropped into a chair, and sat with his face buried in
his hands, his back to the captain's body. He looked up without
moving, and his face was gray.

"All right," he said. "Do as you like. I'm sick."

He looked sick. Burns, who had taken Schwartz's place as second
mate, left the group and came toward me.

"We'd better waken the women," he said. "If you'll tell them,
Leslie, I'll take the crew on deck and keep them there."

Singleton seemed dazed, and when Burns spoke of taking the men on
deck, he got up dizzily.

"I'm going too," he muttered. "I'll go crazy if I stay down here