but I thought of Grandmother, and wouldn't
give in. Also, with far less reason, I thought of Sir James. Strange,
unaccountable creature that I was, my soul cried aloud for the
championship of his strength! "The sea hasn't brought you much luck
yet," I brazened. "I shouldn't advise you to try it again."

"I ain't askin' your advice," retorted the man who had indirectly
introduced himself as "Hank Barlow." "All I ask is, where's the stuff?"

"What stuff?" I played for time, though I knew very well the "stuff" he
meant.

"The goods from the Abbey. I won't say you wasn't smart to get on to the
cache, and nab the box out o' the cave. Only you wasn't quite smart
enough--savez? The fellers laugh best who laugh last. And we're those
fellers!"

"You spring to conclusions," I said. But my voice sounded small in my
own ears--small and thin as the voice of a child. (Oh, to know if this
brute spoke truth about his brother and Roger Fane and the car, or if he
were fighting me with my own weapon--Bluff!)

Henry Barlow laughed aloud--though he mightn't laugh last! "Do you call
yourself a 'conclusion'? I'll give you just two minutes, my handsome
lady, to make up your mind. If you don't tell me then where to lay me
'and on you know _what_, I'll spring at _you_."

By the wolf-glare in his eyes and the boldness of his tone I feared that
his game wasn't wholly bluff. By irony of Fate, he had turned the tables
on me. Thinking the power was all on my side and Roger's, I'd walked
into a trap. And if, indeed, Roger had been struck down from behind, I
did not see any way of escape for him or me. I had let out that I knew
too much.

Even if I turned coward, and told Hank Barlow that the late contents of
his uncle's coffin were on board the _Naiad_, he could not safely allow
Roger or me to go free. But I _wouldn't_ turn coward! To save the secret
of the Abbey treasures meant saving the secret of what that coffin now
held. My sick fear turned to hot rage. "Spring!" I cried. "Kill me if
you choose. _My_ coffin will keep a secret, which yours couldn't do!"

He glared, nonplussed by my violence.

"Devil take you, you cat!" he grunted.

"And you, you hound!" I cried.

His eyes flamed. I think fury would have conquered prudence, and he
would have sprung then, to choke my life out, perhaps. But he hadn't
locked the door. At that instant it swung open, and a whirlwind burst
in. The whirlwind was a man. And the man was James Courtenaye.