t dainty Miss Mission, to say night-night," he
smiled, unfastening the catch on the chronometer case. "Then I'll sleep
on the dirty knife business."

He raised the box lid, started back in doubt, left the box open and
glanced around the desk. Then he rummaged through all the litter on his
table, opened drawers and left them open. He swore torridly, grinding
his teeth with vexation.

The photograph had vanished.

CHAPTER FOUR

For a moment Barry blazed with a desire to turn the ship inside out, and
if necessary search every man clear down to his bedclothes. But the
thought of that flying knife came back to him, and the combination of
mystery gave him pause; there must surely be some connection between the
two occurrences, and the train of thought led directly to the notion
that somewhere in the dark recesses of the brigantine lurked the person
responsible.

The voices of the two mates, one relieving the other, sounded softly
through the open skylight, and Barry decided to curb his impatience. He
mounted to the poop again and gave orders to both officers to keep close
watch as the land was approached and to see that nobody left the ship.
Once more he felt that vague suggestion of a cloaked trap in the second
mate's smiling acceptance of the instructions, but now, strangely, the
feeling did not bother him. The hint remained nebulous; he shook it off
and went to sleep on the more important mystery.

He was called at daybreak and went on deck to find the brigantine
stemming the yellow current of a river estuary. A mile ahead the turbid
waters churned and slopped over the sand bar, forming a sluggish but
powerful eddy across half the river's breadth. Pieces of rotten wood and
heaped masses of forest grasses swirled into a floating tangle in the
lee of the bar.

Preparations were going forward for bringing up, and the skipper's
intention to apprise Little of the events of the past night was perforce
laid aside. It was not until the ship was docked that Little heard the
story. Rolfe was busy on the forecastle getting ready the anchors, while
Vandersee, the bulky Hollander, had stretched out a new lead line along
the poop and was carefully marking it off, after well wetting it. For a
moment Barry failed to see Little. Even the cheery voice was not in
evidence. Then the clattering of iron links, as the cables were ranged
for letting go, was followed by a whoop of interest, and the ex-salesman
popped into sight in