To make the women
doubly secure, we had Oleson nail all the windows closed, although
they were merely portholes. Jones was no longer on guard below, and
I had exchanged Singleton's worthless revolver for my own serviceable
one.
Mrs. Johns, carefully dressed, surveyed the railed-off deck with
raised eyebrows.
"For--us?" she asked, looking at me. The men were gathered about
the wheel aft, and were out of ear-shot. Mrs. Sloane had dropped
into a steamer-chair, and was lying back with closed eyes.
"Yes, Mrs. Johns."
"Where have you put them?"
I pointed to where the jolly-boat, on the port side of the ship,
swung on its davits.
"And the mate, Mr. Singleton?"
"He is in the forward house."
"What did you do with the--the weapon?"
"Why do you ask that?"
"Morbid curiosity," she said, with a lightness of tone that rang
false to my ears. "And then--naturally, I should like to be sure
that it is safely overboard, so it will not be"--she shivered--"
used again."
"It is not overboard, Mrs. Johns," I said gravely. "It is locked in
a safe place, where it will remain until the police come to take it."
"You are rather theatrical, aren't you?" she scoffed, and turned away.
But a second later she came back to me, and put her hand on my arm.
"Tell me where it is," she begged.
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