Turner was sitting on his bunk. He had made an attempt to shave, and
had cut his chin severely. He was in a dressing-gown, and was holding
a handkerchief to his face; he peered at me over it with red-rimmed
eyes.

"This--this is horrible, Leslie," he said. "I can hardly believe it."

"It is true, Mr. Turner."

He took the handkerchief away and looked to see if the bleeding had
stopped. I believe he intended to impress us both with his coolness,
but it was an unfortunate attempt. His lips, relieved of the pressure,
were twitching; his nerveless fingers could hardly refold the
handkerchief.

"Wh-why was I not--called at once?" he demanded.

"I notified you. You were--you must have gone to sleep again."

"I don't believe you called me. You're--lying, aren't you?" He got
up, steadying himself by the wall, and swaying dizzily to the motion of
the ship. "You shut me off down here, and then run things your own
damned way." He turned on Miss Lee. "Where's Helen?"

"In her room, Marsh. She has one of her headaches. Please don't
disturb her."

"Where's Williams?" He turned to me.

"I can get him for you."

"Tell him to bring me a highball. My mouth's sticky." He ran his
tongue over his dry lips. "And--take a message from me to
Richardson--" He stopped, startled. Indeed, Miss Lee and I had both
started. "To who's running the boat, anyhow? Singleton?"

"Mr. Singleton is a prisoner in the forward house," I said gravely.

The effect of this was astonishing. He stared at us both, and, finding
corroboration in Miss Lee's face, his own took on an instant expression
of relief. He dropped to the side of the bed, and his color came
slowly back. He even smiled--a crafty grin that was inexpressibly
horrible.

"Singleton!" he said. "Why do they--how do they know it was he?"

"He had quarreled with the captain last night, and he was on duty at
the time of the when the thing happened. The man at the wheel claims
to have seen him in the chartroom just before, and there was other
evidence, I believe. The lookout saw him forward, with
something--possibly the axe. Not decisive, of course, but enough to
justify putting him in irons. Somebody did it, and the murderer is on
board, Mr. Turner."

His grin had faded, but the crafty look in his pale-blue eyes remained.

"The chart-room was dark. How could the steersman--" He checked
himself abruptly, and looked at us both quickly. "Where are--they?" he