ing sturdily in
a good cause. "She's treated like a queen, with every deference and
respect," said the girl, as she eased his cramped position. "Of course,
she's worried about you. But see here, Mr. Chermside, we've no time for
talking. I must get back to the saloon without being caught if I'm to be
of any use. There are only us two women to stand between you and these
fiends, and there's only God Almighty to stand between us and--the end
of the voyage. There's a bare chance that we may be able to send word
into Plymouth, if I can fool or browbeat the captain, and I must be on
hand to run that chance for all it's worth. You understand that I can't
stay here with you?"

"Yes, go at once," murmured the injured man. "Never mind me, but for
heaven's sake do what you can for her. Above all, let me beg of you not
to harrow her with a description of all this."

The clank of the chain was eloquent of what he meant, and, promising to
observe his wishes, Nettle withdrew. She regained the saloon after her
adventure without meeting any one, and to Violet's eager questions she
gave the evasively truthful answer that Leslie was recovering from his
injuries, but that he was kept a close prisoner on the lower deck, and
that she had had to converse with him without seeing him, leaving it to
be inferred that she had not entered his cabin. By this means she
avoided imparting the gruesome details of the _Cobra's_ "black hole."

Violet steadily refused to retire to the sleeping cabin prepared for
her, and the two girls spent what remained of the hours of darkness in
the saloon together. In the grey of dawn Nettle went out on to the upper
deck, self-possessed as usual, but despondent of success in the task
before her. Brant was on the bridge, stumping to and fro to keep himself
warm, for there was a chilly nip in the breeze that had sprung up during
the night. The little atomy of a skipper seemed in an ominously genial
mood, for at sight of Miss Jimpson's fluttering garments he leaned over
the bridge-rail and hailed her.

"Hullo, my Weymouth linen-tearer!" he called down. "Shaking into your
job nicely, eh? How's her Royal Highness the Maharanee of Sindkhote this
morning? I've no doubt that she's confided in you about her brilliant
destiny. The day will come when she will look on Simon Brant as a sort
of fairy godfather."

Nettle looked round warily. Land was visible on the starboard beam, but
so far off that its contour could not be dis