The Sefalonia was due in New York on Wednesday morning, and, on Tuesday night Grant and Susan sat out on deck together until almost eleven o’clock. Susan glanced at her watch reluctantly.
“If this voyage were going on any longer, Grant,” she said, “I should have to tell people that we were engaged in self-defence. We really do such outrageous things. Do you know that I didn’t dance with any one else to-night?”
“I know I am getting very unpopular,” Grant observed, smiling, “and, curiously enough, I don’t care a bit.”
“Nor do I, really,” she agreed.
“The one thing I am glad about,” he went on, “is that we are approaching a country which has most civilised ideas as regards matrimonial arrangements. No putting banns up and waiting three weeks and that sort of thing.”
“You don’t suppose I’m going to be married over here, do you?” Susan exclaimed.
“I am hoping so,” he replied patiently. “I thought a quiet little wedding in Washington would round of? proceedings there,—if we are any of us left alive.”
“You’ve some very serious work to do first, Grant,” she reminded him.
“Very,” he assented. “So has your father. Mine may lead me into more trouble, perhaps, but your father’s is the greater responsibility. I don’t think there is another man in the world who would be able to handle the situation he will have to handle in a few days. There is a terrible crisis closing upon us, Susan.”
“The thought of it makes our little affairs seem almost unimportant, doesn’t it?” she sighed.
He leaned over and kissed her daringly. “Just for luck,” he murmured.
On his way to his stateroom Grant passed the entrance to Cornelius Blunn’s suite. He raised the curtain. The steward was seated outside the closed door.
“How’s Mr. Blunn to-night?” he enquired.
“He’s been a little easier, I think, sir,” the man replied.
“I wonder whether he’d like to see me?”
“I don’t think I’d disturb him, sir. He’s locked the door and he seems quite quiet now.”
“Are you going to sit there all night?”
“Mr. Blunn’s giving me ten dollars a night not to move, in case he wants me. The chief steward’s put another man on to look after some of my rooms. Lucky I’m used to sleeping in a chair.”
“Goodnight,” Grant wished him.
“Goodnight, sir.”
Grant made his way to his own stateroom, exchanged his patent shoes for some dark-coloured ones with rubber soles, his dinner jacket for a blue serge coat which buttoned close up to his throat, slipped the latest thing in automatics into his pocket, and went up on deck again by a roundabout way. It was nearly midnight now, and only a few people were still in evidence. He drew a chair into the recess close up against the glass-enclosed space in front of Blunn’s suite and waited until one by one they dispersed and he was entirely alone. Then he rose to his feet, opened the sliding door to which he had the key, and found himself in the little sheltered portion of the deck allotted to the suite. The door opening into the outer room was left upon a hook. There was no sound to be heard inside, although a light was burning. Softly he lifted the hook and peered in. The apartment was evidently the sitting room of the suite and was untenanted. He stepped inside and listened. Opposite to him was another door, also on the hook, leading to the sleeping room, from which a thin gleam of light shone. He approached it noiselessly. There was still no sound to be heard, not even the breathing of a sleeping man. For some seconds he paused, puzzled by the unbroken silence, then slowly, and with the utmost care, he lifted the hook and pushed the door open, inch by inch. At last the opening was wide enough to admit the upper part of his body. He leaned forward and stood quite still gripping the side of the door. The bed was empty, although in disorder. Cornelius Blunn was seated on a chair before a round table, leaning forward, his head resting upon his arms. He was wearing a heavy dressing gown over his pyjamas, and was apparently in an extraordinarily deep sleep. His left hand was stretched out across the table, and gripped between its fingers was the end of a chain and some keys. A few inches farther away still was a box of dull yellow metal.
The seconds crept on. Grant could almost feel his own heart thumping. He stepped into the room, hooked the door again, and drew nearer and nearer to the silent figure. Then, as he bent over it, a new horror faced him. He forgot for a moment the great object of his search,—forgot that the secrets of a world’s salvation were there within his grasp. He stooped down to peer into the stricken face. Human nature, all his powers of restraint, failed him. He gave a little cry. It was a terrible thing to look thus into the face of a dead man. He recovered himself at once. The cry, he realised, had been almost fatal. The steward outside had heard him. There was a heavy knocking at the door. He took no notice. The knocking continued. Then Grant made the effort of his life. He seized the stiffening fingers and dragged from them the end of the chain, unbuttoned the other end from the belt underneath the pyjama jacket, slipped it into his pocket and took the casket into his hands. With stealthy footsteps he stole away, unhooked the door and hooked it again, crossed the sitting room, reached the little glass-enclosed deck, passed through on to the main deck, and went staggering towards the farther end. He stood for a moment in the wind to recover himself. They were making about thirty knots an hour through a tumbling sea with little showers of spray thrown glittering into the air. Grant felt the sting of them on his face and in a moment he was himself again. He walked round the bows, descended the gangway from the other side and hurried to Lord Yeovil’s suite. There was still a light in the sitting room. He knocked at the door and entered. Lord Yeovil, half undressed, was finishing a whisky and soda. He looked at the intruder without saying a word. Grant slipped the bolt through the door.
“I’ve got it,” he announced breathlessly. “I’ve got the casket and the key. I want you to put it at once into one of the official boxes.”
“Any struggle?” Lord Yeovil asked.
“None,” was the awe-stricken reply, “but it was horrible all the same. Cornelius Blunn is dead.”