seconds when no
voice was audible. Then, like a ghostly hand out of the black beyond,
something whirred past Barry's face, touched the skin lightly in
passing, and thudded into the bellying mainsail.

Like a flash the skipper swung on his heel. As he turned he caught sight
of the cook at his galley door; his eyes next fell upon the motionless
figure of the helmsman; with the one motion he shoved his head through
the deckhouse window and swept a keen searching look around the
interior. It was undoubtedly empty.

He stepped over to leeward without remark and looked for the missile in
the hollow of the sail foot. Nothing there. But following the canvas
upward, he detected a clean slit in the cloth and passed under the boom
to follow his clue. Then, by the rail in the coil of the
main-gaff-topsail-halliards, he saw something glitter and picked it up.

"A pretty joke gone adrift!" he muttered, balancing the glittering thing
in his palm. "Now who the devil threw that?"

The missile that had fanned his cheek was a heavy-bladed, double-edged
knife, a knife made for throwing if ever one was: such a weapon as no
sailor ever had need of; a thing that could mean only murder when it
left a thrower's hand. And it had come from one of only two possible
directions: from aft, or from the deckhouse; and the deckhouse was
empty. Barry walked swiftly aft and confronted the man at the wheel,
holding up the knife.

"What did you throw this for?" he snapped, boring into the man's placid
face with blazing eyes.

"No t'row heem, sar--no can do--No see 'eem knife lika dat, sar," denied
the little brown man, merely raising his eyes to look at the knife, then
stolidly fastening his gaze upon the compass again.

Barry scrutinized the man keenly and shrugged his shoulders in disgust.
He could have no doubt the man spoke truth. The little, soft-mannered
Javanese people are not as a rule addicted to murder. Like a shadow the
skipper sped to the taffrail and peered over. Nothing was there, save
the big square ports, triced up by chains to admit the air into the
saloon. Back again, Barry asked the sailor:

"Did you see a man up here just before I came aft?"

"No see nobody, sar," replied the man with cherubic simplicity. "Small
bird, I t'ink, he fly by my face one time. Das all."

"Little bird, hell!" snorted the skipper, moving away. He was inclined
to make little of the occurrence, since the solution seemed so hopeless;
but he did not perm