Next day Sagesse shewed signs neither of his intoxication of the past night nor of the worry that had preceded it. Neither did the deck shew sign of Pedro.

Was the man dead, or was he lying in his hammock, recovering from his injuries? It was impossible to say; the faces of the crew told nothing.

The weather was perfect, blue and warm, and La Belle ArlÉsienne, with every rag of canvas set, was making good way.

If a ship could develop a character, one might have fancied La Belle ArlÉsienne infected with the character of Sagesse; at least so it seemed to Gaspard. There was something stealthy and almost underhand in this old tramp of the ocean. He could remember, the first day he sighted her hull down on the horizon, how she had grown upon the sky-line, how she had come towards him as he lay drifting in the open boat like an angel to his rescue, and then, the light and wind dying with the sunset, how she had all at once seemed to forget him.

How she had vanished for a moment in the darkness, and then had come stealing along in the starlight.

She was sixty years old, and more, built in Havannah in the early forties; age was telling against her, and it may have been the touch of age, added to the cut of her ill-fitting sails and some trend in her build, that gave her distinction over other ships. Who knows? But the fact remains that she was a “character,” picturesque in any port of the world, and romantic with a suggestion of villainy and deceit.

But to-day she moved with a freedom and youthfulness, as though rejoicing in the depths of her old heart at the business on hand.

At eight bells, four o’clock, there was still no sign of Pedro on deck, nor word about him. Sagesse was nowhere to be seen, the deck-house door was closed, and Gaspard determined on a bold stroke.

He must verify his suspicions. If Pedro had been done to death by Sagesse it was important for him to have first-hand knowledge of the fact, which would be a weapon against this villain should he give trouble in the future.

He went forward, passing the green-painted bell from which one of the crew had just rung out the hour.

Several of the hands were on deck, but not Jules. This man, though he was mate and had a knowledge of navigation sufficient to work the vessel, berthed in the fo’cs’le with the others. He was no doubt there.

Now, the fo’cs’le of a ship is sacred to the hands. It is entered by the ship’s officers rarely, and only on extraordinary occasions. Gaspard knew this fact, but the knowledge did not deter him.

He went to the fo’cs’le hatch, and descended the ladder into gloom and a stifling atmosphere.

It was a roomy enough place, as fo’cs’les go, and considering the tonnage of La Belle ArlÉsienne, but all the winds of heaven could never have purged it of the scent of blackbeetles and negroes. The slush lamps that had lit it for sixty years, the tobacco, from Perique to twist, that had been smoked there, the men, from Dagoes to Africans, who had lived there, all had left a reminiscence, a taint, almost one might say a colour.

Bunks lined the sides; there was only one hammock, it belonged to Jules; only one sea-chest, Jules’; the rest of the crew did not trouble about luggage very much—a knotted handkerchief or an old fish-mat serving them for bags and chests. The bunks ran up to where the heel of the bowsprit came into the place between the knightheads.

There were five men here, all asleep; Jules in his hammock and the four others in bunks; naked, for they had kicked off the last of their clothes in the stifling heat; and looking like bronze figures cast by some fantastic sculptor, fresh from the mould, and flung here and there to cool.

Pedro was not here.

Gaspard carefully verified the fact. The man must have died in the night and been cast overboard like a dog. There could be no doubt of the fact, for on La Belle ArlÉsienne there was no other place where he could be but here, unless he were stowed in the lazarette, in the caboose, in the harness cask or shot down the main hatch. Overboard was a much more tenable supposition. The thing had probably been done before dawn, and as Gaspard recognised the fact and looked around him at these grim figures lost in sleep, his own position on board, should anything bring him into opposition with Sagesse, came before him vividly.

Without clothes, naked, and barbaric, lit by the dim rays of the swinging lamp, here were the men who would give him short shrift and a plunge in the sea at the word of their commander. Pedro was one of themselves, yet they had made no opposition to his murder.

As he stood looking, a man in one of the starboard bunks tossed his arms and moved in his sleep. Gaspard did not wait. A moment later he was on deck. He had been lucky; the cook who had been in the caboose had not left it, the men on deck, all except the man at the wheel, were lazing in the afternoon sunshine. Three of them were seated with their backs to the after part of the main hatch, chewing tobacco, and yarning; he could see the tops of their heads and hear their voices yaw-yawing, their laughter and an occasional oath; two were leaning over the side of the vessel to leeward, yarning, and spitting into the sea.

The door of the deck-house was still closed. There was no lookout forward, the individual who ought to have been the eyes of the ship was leaning over the rail to leeward.

Discipline in this respect was rather lax on board La Belle ArlÉsienne. She took chances in fine weather; she seemed blind very often, yet she found her way about, rarely making a serious mistake. Gaspard imagined that the crew of this blind and easy-going vessel were unobservant and that his expedition into the fo’cs’le had passed unnoticed. In this he was wrong.