"Thank you, sir--I thank you," he said, and, without more ado,
tiptoed from the room.
Of course I did not read. How could I? Nor did I sleep. My mind
ran on, and on, and not until the steward brought my coffee, shortly
before five, did I sink into my first doze.
One thing is very evident. Mr. Pike does not dream that the murderer
of Captain Somers is on board the Elsinore. He has never glimpsed
that prodigious fissure that clefts Mr. Mellaire's, or, rather,
Sidney Waltham's, skull. And I, for one, shall never tell Mr. Pike.
And I know, now, why from the very first I disliked the second mate.
And I understand that live thing, that other thing, that lurks within
and peers out through the eyes. I have recognized the same thing in
the three gangsters for'ard. Like the second mate, they are prison
birds. The restraint, the secrecy, and iron control of prison life
has developed in all of them terrible other selves.
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