spread from face to face. But no one spoke. There was
no need to. All recognized that they were in the presence of an
apparent impossibility. Yet this seemingly impossible thing was the
fact. There had been two men in the hold of the Jasper B. They had
entered as mysteriously and silently as disembodied spirits might have
done. One of them, wounded, had made his exit in the same baffling way.
Where? How?

Cleggett broke the silence.

"Let us go to the forecastle and have a look at that fellow," he said,
and led the way.

No one lagged as they left the hold. These were all brave men, but
there are times when the invisible, the incomprehensible, will send a
momentary chill to the heart of the most intrepid.

Cleggett found Lady Agatha, her own troubles for the time forgotten, in
the forecastle. She had lighted a lamp and was bending over the
wounded man, whose coat and waistcoat she had removed. His clothing was
a sop of blood. They cut his shirt and undershirt from him. Kuroki
brought water and the medicine chest and surgical outfit with which
Cleggett had provided the Jasper B. They examined his wounds, Lady
Agatha, with a fine seriousness and a deft touch which claimed
Cleggett's admiration, washing them herself and proceeding to stop the
flow of blood.

"Oh, I am not an altogether useless person," she said, with a momentary
smile, as she saw the look in Cleggett's face. And Cleggett remembered
with shame that he had not thanked her for her ministrations to himself.

A pistol bullet had gone quite through the young man's shoulder. There
was a deep cut on his head, and there were half a dozen other stab
wounds on his body. George had evidently worked with great rapidity in
the hold.

In the inside breast pocket of his coat he had carried a thin and
narrow little book. There was a dagger thrust clear through it; if the
book had not been there this terrible blow delivered by the son of
Leonidas must inevitably have penetrated the lung.

Cleggett opened the book. It was entitled "Songs of Liberty, by
Giuseppe Jones." The verse was written in the manner of Walt Whitman.
A glance at one of the sprawling poems showed Cleggett that in
sentiment it was of the most violent and incendiary character.

"Why, he is an anarchist!" said Cleggett in surprise.

"Oh, really!" Lady Agatha looked up from her work of mercy and spoke
with animation, and then gazed upon the youth's face again with a new
interest.