e
across decks to the farther bulwarks; and the decks were deserted.
She mounted no riding-lamp, and no glimmer of light showed from hatchway,
deckhouse, or galley.

Minutes passed, and, as still no sign of life appeared on board, Myra grew
bolder and pushed across for a nearer view. Yes; the deck was deserted,
and only the deck intervened between her and Mr. Benny's quay-door, by the
sill of which the tide ran lapping and sucking at the crevices of the
wall. She hardened her heart. Even if her footstep gave the alarm below,
she could dash across and through the doorway before being seized or even
detected. She laid both hands on the clay-dusted bulwarks and hoisted
herself gently. The boat--she had done with it--slipped away noiselessly
from under her and away into darkness.

She had meant to clear the ship with a rush; but as her feet touched the
deck her courage failed her, and she tiptoed forward stealthily, gaining
the shadow of the deckhouse and pausing there.

And there, in the act of crouching to spring across the few remaining
yards, she drew back, crouching lower yet; for, noiseless as she, the dark
form of a man had stepped forward and framed itself in the grey glimmering
doorway.

For an instant she made sure that he was about to step on board. But many
seconds passed, and still he waited there--as it seemed to her, in the
attitude of a man listening; though to what he listened she could not
guess. She herself heard no sound but the lapping of the tide.

By and by, gripping the ladder-rail and setting one foot against the
_One-and-All's_ bulwarks to steady himself, the man leaned outboard and
sideways until a faint edge of light from the office window fell on his
upturned face.

It was the face of her uncle.

Fascinated by terror, following his gaze--by instinct seeking for help, if
any might be found--Myra lifted her face to the window. That too was
darkened for the instant by a man's form; and as he crossed the room to
the chair beside the desk, she recognised Tom Trevarthen.

CHAPTER XXIII.

HESTER WRITES A LOVE-LETTER.

Mr. Salt must have been preaching Hester's talent at large among seamen of
the port, for when she returned from her interview with Sir George
Mr. Benny met her at the kitchen door with news that no less than six
sailors awaited her in the office, and that two or three had been
patiently expecting her for an hour at least.

"Tis a great tax on you, my dear, and