"The chart-room was dark. How could the steersman--" He checked
himself abruptly, and looked at us both quickly. "Where are--they?"
he asked in a different tone.

"On deck."

"We can't keep them in this weather."

"We must," I said. "We will have to get to the nearest port as
quickly as we can, and surrender ourselves and the bodies. This
thing will have to be sifted to the bottom, Mr. Turner. The
innocent must not suffer for the guilty, and every one on the ship
is under suspicion."

He fell into a passion at that, insisting that the bodies be buried
at once, asserting his ownership of the vessel as his authority,
demanding to know what I, a forecastle hand, had to say about it,
flinging up and down the small room, showering me with invective and
threats, and shoving Miss Lee aside when she laid a calming hand on
his arm. The cut on his chin was bleeding again, adding to his wild
and sinister expression. He ended by demanding Williams.

I opened the door and called to Charlie Jones to send the butler,
and stood by, waiting for the fresh explosion that was coming.
Williams shakily confessed that there was no whiskey on board.

"Where is it?" Turner thundered.

Williams looked at me. He was in a state of inarticulate fright.