whereabouts. Why?"

"I've only been giving the usual calls," the young man muttered.

"Don't lie to me," was the grim reply. "Your wireless was supposed to
be silent from yesterday midday except for the purpose of receiving
calls. I ask you again, why and to whom were you advertising our
whereabouts and course?"

Robins looked at the revolver, looked at Crawshay, and was dimly
conscious of a damp feeling about his forehead. Nevertheless, his lips
were screwed together, and he remained silent.

"Come," Crawshay went on, "we'll have a common-sense talk. I am an
agent of the British Secret Service. I have unlimited powers upon this
ship, power to put a bullet through your head if I choose, and not a
soul to question it. The game's up so far as you are concerned. You
have received messages on this steamer of which you have kept no
record, but which you have delivered secretly to a certain passenger.
Of that I may or may not speak later on. At present I am more
interested in your operations of to-night. You are signalling the
information of our whereabouts for some definite reason. What is it?
Were you trying to pick up the _Blucher?_"

"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