for his sake, Sylvia. I suppose you're to be married."

They moved apart, and each stared at O'Moy Sylvia in cold anger,
Tremayne in chagrin.

"You see, Sylvia," the captain cried, at this voicing of the world's
opinion he feared so much on her behalf.

"Does she?" said Sir Terence, misunderstanding. "I wonder? Unless
you've made all plain."

The captain frowned.

"Made what plain?" he asked. "There is something here I don't
understand, O'Moy. Your attitude towards me ever since you ordered
me under arrest has been entirely extraordinary. It has troubled me
more than anything else in all this deplorable affair."

"I believe you," snorted O'Moy, as with his hands behind his back
he strode forward into the room. He was pale, and there was a set,
malignant sneer upon his lip, a malignant look in the blue eyes
that were habitually so clear and honest.

"There have been moments," said Tremayne, "when I have almost felt
you to be vindictive."

"D'ye wonder?" growled O'Moy. "Has no suspicion crossed your mind
that I may know the whole truth?"

Tremayne was taken aback. "That startles you, eh?" cried O'Moy,