"Hands up!"

The order was hissed out very softly, but 'there was a sibilant menace permeating its quietness which made the experienced Mr. Maggs obey without question.

A hand dipped into his jacket pocket, and he felt his gun being deftly extracted.

"Now you can turn round."

Mr. Maggs pivoted slowly, and his jaw dropped when he saw the girl.

"You she-devil!" snarled Maggs, taking courage from the sight. "Sticking me up! Well, honey — "

He started to lower his arms. Two revolver muzzles jerked up and held their aim at his chest. The hands that held them were as steady as the hands of a stone image, and his keen stare could detect no trace of nervousness in the face of their owner. Mr. Maggs, wise in his generation, read the threat of sudden death in the girl's cold eyes, and stopped.

"Down the companion," said Patricia. "And don't try to get away or shout or anything. There's bound to be shooting sooner or later, and it might as well start on you."

Maggs complied to the letter. He was too old a hand not to recognize a bluff when he saw one, and he knew that this slip of a girl with the two guns wasn't bluffing. He went slowly down the companion and waited, and in a moment he heard her step down on the deck' behind him, and again the revolver nosed into the small of his back.

"Now — where's the Tiger?"

He chuckled.

"You're wrong there, you! The Tiger isn't coming on this trip — he was persuaded not to."

"Where would you like to be shot?" she asked frostily.

"That won't alter it," said Maggs. "I tell you, the Tiger isn't on board. I can't tell you why, and I can't tell you where he is, but the other guys arrived without him, and said he might come later or probably he mightn't come at all. You can ask Bittte."

She could not decide whether the man was lying or not, but she sensed that he was manoeuvring for an opportunity to turn the tables on her. "

"Where is Bittle?"

"The left-hand cabin."

"Lead right in there," said Patricia, and knew by the way he hesitated that he had lied, and that he had been hoping she would postpone entering that cabin and take him into the one on the right, where perhaps Bittle was.

He opened the door, and there she stopped him:

"Walk right in — and keep well away from the door. If you try to slam it in my face you'll get hurt."

He submitted perforce, and she followed him in and kicked the door to. She was then in a dilemma — a man could have tied Maggs up and left him, but Patricia could not trust herself to do that, since she would have no chance against him if he turned on her while she was unarmed, and she could not truss him up effectively with one hand. And she could hardly lock him in loose, when he could smash a porthole and raise the alarm as soon as she passed on. In fact, there was only one way to eliminate Mr. Maggs...

Swiftly she reversed the revolver in tier right hand, swept it up, and crashed it down with all her strength on the back of his head.

The next moment she was looking down at his prostrate form, and she found that she was trembling. To embark on an evening's amateur piracy — even to the extent of holding up the skipper at the end of a gun — even to putting out a recalcitrant cook in fair fight — is one thing. To strike a man down in cold blood is another, especially when you do it for the first time in your uneventful life. She feared that she might have killed him, but a rapid examination showed that he was still breathing, though she reckoned by the vim she had put into the blow that he would have no interest in the entertainment for a long time. She regained her feet, considerably relieved.

"Pull yourself together, Patricia Holm!" she admonished herself. "This isn't a vicarage tea party — you can't afford to be squeamish. They'll do worse to you if they get you, so let 'em have it while you can!"

Now for Bittle....

She locked Mr. Maggs in, and stowed the key away by a cleat, where it could be recovered later if required. Then she crossed to the other door, turned the handle noiselessly, and suddenly flung the door wide.

The cabin was in darkness. She searched for the electric-light switch, and the darkness was wiped out in a glare that half blinded her, but she was able to see that the cabin was empty. An open valise was on the bunk, and some clothes had been unpacked and lay strewn about. A faint odour of fresh tobacco proved that the occupant had not long been gone. Then an ash tray on the ledge of the disappearing wash basin caught her eye, and she discovered the origin of the smoky smell, for the cigar had only just been lighted.

Would Bittle have left his cigar behind him?

An indefinable suspicion of impending danger tingled up her spine like the caress of a thousand needle points of ice…

Or did it mean that he would be back in a moment? If so, she was asking for trouble by keeping the light on and standing full in the blaze of it. Hurriedly she clicked the lever over, and darkness descended again.

She spun round with a start, and saw him at her shoulder, but he was too quick for her. He had caught her two guns, one in each hand, and torn them out of her grasp before she could move.

Chapter XVIII

THE SAINT RETURNS

Bittle pushed the girl roughly into the cabin and slammed the door.

"Now let's have a look at you."

He was in his shirt sleeves, and the fact that he had loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar for comfort in the sultriness of the evening increased the ruffianly effect of his appearance. John Bittle was one of the men who are only tolerable when conventionally dressed. And his round red face was no longer genial.

His gaze stripped her from crown to toe, and the girl went hot under its slow significant deliberateness.

He stuck her revolvers in his trousers pockets, so that the butts protruded, and leaned against the door, folding his arms and smiling. His smile was introspective, and was not charming; and when he spoke again he did not bother to infuse any mellowness into his voice.

"Well, well!" he said. "So this is the immaculate Miss Holm! Forgive my surprise, but one hardly expects to find the young ladies-of the aristocracy behaving like this.”

"As one hardly expects to find Sir John Bittle in such company and such circumstances," she retorted.

He shook his head.

"There does happen to be a Sir John Bitfle, but I am not he. I assumed his knighthood for the edification of Baycombe; and now that we have both said good-bye to Baycombe I don't mind being plain John Bittle again."

"I'm delighted to hear," said Patricia scathingly, "that you're resigned to your plainness."

She wasn't letting Bittle think that he was getting away with anything, though in fact she was afraid for the first time in her life. He was master of the situation, and he knew it; and her only hope for the moment lay in bluffing him that she knew better.

"I trust you will also become resigned to it," he returned smoothly — "otherwise your married life will not be happy. You understand? My offer still holds good, which I think is very generous of me, though I'm afraid you have no choice. In less than an hour we shall be at sea, and this ship is under my command. I can only say that I'm very much obliged to you for turning up just when I feared I had lost you.''

"You're assuming a lot,"said the girl coolly.

His fixed smile did not alter.

"As a business man, I have no time to waste beating about the bush. You will marry me now^ and there's an end to it. Maggs — the captain — can perform the ceremony quite legally. Incidentally, you should be grateful for my intervention. If I were not here — well, Maggs is a vindictive man, and I think he will bear you malice for the way you've just treated him. But I shall be able to protect you from the vengeance of Maggs, and in return for my kindness I shall expect you to be a good wife to me."