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 distinction212 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 s............