Landlocked and secure, the crew of the Pole Star worked out the day by odd jobs about the deck. Stirling heard them swabbing down, and caught the cockney accent of the mate raised in cheerful encouragement as the skipper sent forward more grog.

The long Arctic day died slowly out over the waters of the Bering and the Gulf of Anadir. The waves which beat upon the rocky headlands, buttressing the tiny harbour, curled inward and ran with seething foam up a shelving beach.

Marr had made one trip to the outer sea. He returned and called Whitehouse to the poop. Their voices were raised incautiously, and Stirling heard the Bear mentioned. The boastful laugh which followed showed that the revenue cutter had gone by without being aware of the harbour's entrance. The view from the sea was one of solid rock and towering headland.

It was at five bells that Stirling heard steps within the alleyway. The sentry had been sleeping on duty, and he woke as Marr's voice broke the stillness of the ship. The lock of his door clicked, and Stirling switched on his electric light and waited, his breast exposed, showing the hairy massiveness of his shoulders and the supple muscles beneath.

Marr came in with cautious eyes, glanced about the cabin, stared at the porthole thoughtfully, then lifted his chin to Stirling. "How are things with you?" Marr asked. "Getting along all right?"

"As well as could be expected on this criminal ship!"

Marr frowned and sat down on the edge of the bunk. "Don't take it that way," he said, fingering the horn buttons of his natty pea-jacket. "Come over with us and see the thing through. We'll wait around here a few days more, then——"

The pause was suggestive. Stirling backed slowly to the skin of the ship and lowered his hands to his sides. "Then what?" he asked.

"Ah, there is a wide world to roam in. There are many ports of call."

Stirling clenched his fists; his eyes were levelled toward the assured skipper. "I think you had better get out of here!" Stirling said, sharply. "I don't want to listen to suggestions from you. Brave men do not raid the rookeries. They don't lock up a man for doing his duty."

Marr smiled, and Stirling studied him. The little skipper had come into the cabin for some reason other than the one he had stated; he was far too genial and condescending.

"What do you want with me?" the Pilot inquired. "Out with it and then leave. I'll trouble you to allow me this small space for myself. It's not much to ask."

"I want your good will, Stirling. The fact of the matter is this——"

Stirling saw the smile vanish from the skipper's lips, and the face which peered out from the shadow of the bunk was not nearly so assured.

"The fact is this," repeated Marr: "there's a person aboard who is interested in you. I have made the argument that you will join us sooner or later. I am going to make it to your interest to join us."

"Who do you mean?"

"That I can't say now! This person, however, believes that you will be very dangerous to my interests in the future. In other words, you are standing out for the foolish laws of the sea. If you persist in this stand, there can be only one finish to you."

"What finish is that?"

"You'll either be marooned on a barren island or tapped on the head and dropped overside. You can't expect to squeal on us."

"How about Eagan?"

"He saw and guessed too much, but he will not see what is coming. I have a plan to avoid the Bear and the other cutters. It will take us to strange seas and glorious coasts. We have seal pelts enough to make every man aboard rich; we can get more at Disko and Copper Island. All hands shall share alike, and spread to the four winds."

Stirling saw the drift of the little skipper's argument. He was offering a bribe for silence and coÖperation. "I'll never change my views," he said, stoutly. "You can't get away with that raid or the pelts. Right will beat you. Public opinion is the strongest force I know. You have been moving contrary to it."

Marr rose from the bunk and glanced at the door, outside of which the sentry was pacing energetically back and forth. "You're doomed," whispered the skipper. "I gave you a chance. This person cannot help you. You'd better consider the matter carefully."

The captain's tone had changed; he was far too sure of himself to suit Stirling. It was possible that he would not be allowed to see the dawn.

"Who is this person who is interested in me?" asked Stirling with candour. "Whitehouse?"

"No; not the mate. You perhaps think he is your friend, but he is with me to the finish of this passage. The rest of the crew are with me. None of them wants a squealer somewhere ashore where he can harm us. They're all for sewing you in a sack and dropping you overboard."

Had the skipper snapped out his threats or otherwise acted in a bullying manner, Stirling would have felt less concern, but there was that in the icy tones and matter-of-fact statements which chilled red blood and caused a presentiment to reach and grip at the heart.

The two men stood in silence, then slowly turned and stared at each other. Marr's eyes were the first to drop. He raised them again with an effort. "I hate to finish you off," he said, without moving his lips, "but it's got to be done. I've posted a second sentry on the poop. Both have orders to shoot you down if you try to escape."

"Who is the person?" repeated Stirling, like a child with but one lesson.

Marr glided toward the door and stood in the opening.

"Who is the person?"

The little skipper leaned forward and hissed his words as he said: "You'll never see her! She wants me to spare you. I can't do it and live on this earth. You know too much!"

The door closed with a click. Marr was gone.

Stirling's brain grew numb, and as the hot blood rushed to his cheeks, he raised his hand and pressed his fingers against his throbbing temples. He stared at the door with every muscle tense and eager. It would be possible to break through to the alleyway. There, however, he would meet with the Kanaka sentry, and the native was far too stolid to be moved by a sudden rush.

The ship rocked slightly with the movement of the inner waves which had risen over the early hours of the night. A murmur came to Stirling's ears, and he crossed the cabin, pressing his face against the brass rim of the porthole. A rocky wall, seamed here and there with dark fissures, reared a barrier, while the Pole Star swung at her anchor chain with her stern toward the opening to the gulf.

Stirling heard the pacing of the sentry on deck, and above the sound of his sliding foot he sensed the voices of men aft of the canvas barrier. Marr and the mate were in whispered consultation.

Whitehouse allowed his voice to rise above its ordinary pitch. He was insisting upon some matter which was of vital importance to him, and it concerned making away with the only spy in their midst. Marr's answer was unheard by Stirling, but it quieted the mate as if a hand had smoothed out a difficulty with clever, cunning fingers. Marr was doubly dangerous. He held close control of his brain and tongue.

Stirling paced back and forth within the narrow confines of his cabin. He had measured the porthole with the span of his hand, and knew it was far too small for escape. It could not well be enlarged by any tool in his possession. He turned toward the door as a last resort. Its stout panels and heavy oaken planks called for super efforts, but they could be cut, providing the sentry dropped off into sleep. Stirling waited and listened for this to happen.

Midnight and eight bells found him crouched with his ear close to the lower starboard panel. The strength to right a wrong and fight to the bitter end had crept over him. He was a match for Marr and half of the others of the crew. He feared no five men aboard the ship if the fight were to be with fists.

A clean life and steady purpose had often accomplished wonders. He reviewed the entire situation, and summed it up in a slow, firm way. Marr and the mate and the others of the crew had taken a lesson from Eagan. They were in the poaching matter far too deeply to back out, since the spoil was 'tween decks, and was also waiting on the Copper Islands.

"Better snatch a delusion from a woman," said Stirling, grimly, "than deny a Bering Sea crew the right to poach."

He thought of Marr's parting words, the lack of venom in which showed that the end would come swiftly and after deliberate preparations. His one hope was the woman who had pleaded for his life. She had to be reckoned with—perhaps she was resourceful. Her eyes were wide ones and undying in their intensity.

Stirling moved toward the wall and reached for the electric light, then dropped his hand without turning it on. He found the bunk, searched under the seaweed mattress, and the cold thrill of the tiny revolver nerved him as he held it in the palm of his right hand. After all, he thought, there was a man's life or two in the silver-plated barrel. A bold rush when the door was opened, a stream of lead, and the open deck might offer possibilities.

The night was dark. There was one fissure leading up from the shelving beach to the higher tableland. If he reached this he would be free. Siberia and a wide sky was the vaulting place for a possible revenge.

He stepped toward the porthole and pressed his forehead against the cold metal rim, his eyes slowly making out the details of the harbour and the shore. They grew keen and penetrating.

A gushing and tossing stream of creamy water issued from the face of the rock. It silvered down and flattened out where the waves lapped up a shelving shore. The roar of this waterfall was faint and musical, like a melody set in a dream.

Stirling remained at the porthole, looking toward the shore. His eyes grew intent, and now he made out details which had at first been overlooked. Crags and moss were apparent; a shelf grew from a dark line to a possible passageway for an agile man. He traced the course of this and saw that it vanished over the extreme edge of the highest cliff where the dark stone stood out against the star-scattered sky.

"I can climb that," he said with conviction. "That is a road to Siberia."

He listened as a sound floated from the quarter-deck. Steps were directly over him, and a shadow fell along the surface of the heaving waters, a shadow slight and elfin.

Dangling before his startled eyes, and partly blotting out the view of the open night, there had appeared an object which was fastened on the end of a loose line.

As it swung back and forth a foot scraped close to the ship's rail, and a low voice called with musical timbre.

Stirling reached out through the porthole and drew in the line. He untied the packet, which was knotted by a square knot, and waited. The line was drawn upward; a belaying pin creaked in the pinrail; the steps sounded again. Then they seemed to be aft.

Backing from the ship's skin, and feeling behind with his left hand, Stirling found the edge of the bunk and sat down with heavy thoughts. He toyed with the packet and weighed it by moving his right hand up and down in the gloom.

Unbinding it slowly, he scented for the first time the aroma of heliotrope. Once before he had detected that perfume. That was when the girl had appeared at the galley porthole and handed in the revolver.

He removed a lace handkerchief, thrust it into his shirt pocket, and smiled at the practical present which had been lowered from the poop. The offering was to the point and suggestive. He counted twenty-five tiny cartridges which most certainly were designed for the little silver-plated revolver.

"I like her," he said, thrusting the bullets within his shirt. "She's true blue and thinks of the right things. Likewise, she's a daughter of the sea!"

He rose and moved slowly toward the porthole. The outside now seemed nearer, for some reason; the friend on deck had warmed his blood. She was standing by in case of a blow.

The ship's bell was struck with a muffled marlinespike as Stirling stood in patient idleness. He counted the strokes, and heard a far closing of a hatch, sign that the anchor watch had changed. The sentry in the alleyway spoke to another who came to take his place. The new arrival tested the door and otherwise acted as if he would remain awake over the time allotted to his duties.

Suddenly, and in an unwarned manner, Stirling grew aware that ashore a shadow moved along the higher shelf of the cliff. This shadow was followed by a second and then a third. Men in ragged guise were descending the trail that led from the Siberian tableland to the land-locked harbour wherein lay the Pole Star.

The descending forms disappeared, as they entered a chasm in the rocky wall. They came into view again and stood upon a shelf which was directly over the taper jib boom of the ship. They pointed with swaying arms, first at the Pole Star, and then toward the open Gulf of Anadir. It was evident to Stirling that they never had been in the same locality before.

He drew upon his imagination as he tried to fathom the reason for the ragged visitors. They were not natives or Eskimos. Their matted hair and bold, staring eyes betokened Russians.

The leading figure issued a silent order by pointing upward, whereupon a man climbed the trail, disappeared in the chasm, and reappeared upon the shelf which marked the tableland. He vanished against the velvet of the sky, and a slow minute passed. There came then a score of heads over the edge, and a blurred mass of outcasts started down the pathway with the messenger leading them.

Stirling had seen enough to realize that the ship was in danger. Out of the barren land of Siberia figures had crept in an endeavour to reach the sea. They bore all the evidence of a terrible journey, and were in numbers sufficient to capture the ship.

No sound came from the deck of the poacher; the sentry at the door was leaning against the barrel of his rifle; the anchor watch slept profoundly. Fair game lay in the cove, and the hour was close when its enemies would strike.

"Let them come," said Stirling. "I'll not warn Marr. He brought it on himself."