ink she played like an angel."

"Son, you don't get the point. What do you think about changing suddenly
from that exquisite Charpentier love song to a funeral march--just
before the rifle went off?"

"You don't mean she was signaling?" I asked in surprise, for the idea
knocked me a little bit silly.

"I mean just that; of course, she was signaling, and taking a big
chance, too. You may put your own construction on the first piece she
played, but the instant she saw what they were up to she sent us the
flash. The only trouble about it was that we weren't anywhere near as
quick."

"But look here," I said, alarmed by another thought, "suppose she meant
it would be _her_ funeral march if we keep up the pursuit?"

Tommy considered this.

"I reckon not," he finally replied. "They might threaten us with her
death if we don't turn back, but there'd be no reason to kill her
otherwise. No, she saw them preparing to shoot--which you can't deny
that they did, jolly good and well."

"She's a queen," I murmured.

"Queen! That girl must be a royal straight flush in hearts, and if it
weren't for Nell I'd adore her to the tips of my teeth!"

At midnight I sent the mate to relieve Gates and gave the wheel to a
likely sailor, and after making sure they understood the signals we went
below for a bite to eat. Although the day of suspense had been wearing,
my brain was too active to permit much thought of sleep; but finally
Gates nodded, awoke with a jerk, and started off to bed. He had had no
easy time of it on the bowsprit, good old Gates!

Tommy and I talked in low tones while the professor sat to one side,
humped over and buried in thought. He was a strange looking spectacle
when buried in thought. His countenance then became all wrinkles, with a
kind of turned-up nubbin in the middle that I knew to be a nose, only
because I'd previously seen it--otherwise it might have been almost
anything that one does not expect to find in the center of a man's face.
Tommy regarded him a moment in silence.

"Monsieur," he whispered, "come join this confab. We're up against the
real thing in the morning, and may as well begin to lay pipe. The old
catamount who shot out our searchlight won't have any more regard for
our personal lights, let's keep that in mind. What's more, he has a real
excuse now, because we fired those blanks at him which he'll find it
convenient to say weren't blanks. So the business is coming off to a
certainty. What