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“And I have studied it all out,” he said, in conclusion. “I was drugged–I believe, with hasheesh, which makes a man see strange things–and brought up on the bridge lookout where I could be watched and my ravings listened to and recorded, for the sole purpose of discrediting my threatened testimony in regard to the collision of the night before. But I was only half-drugged, as I spilled part of my tea at supper. In that tea, I am positive, was the hasheesh.”

“You know all about it, don’t you,” snarled Captain Bryce, from his chair, “’twas not hasheesh; ’twas an infusion of Indian hemp; you don’t know–” Mr. Austen’s hand closed over his mouth and he subsided.

“Self-convicted,” said Rowland, with a quiet laugh. “Hasheesh is made from Indian hemp.”

“You hear this, gentlemen,” exclaimed Mr. Meyer, springing to his feet and facing everybody in turn. He pounced on Captain Barry. “You hear this confession, captain; you hear him say Indian hemp? I have a witness now, Mr. Thompson. Go right on with your suit. You hear him, Captain Barry. You are disinterested. You are a witness. You hear?”

“Yes, I heard it–the murdering scoundrel,” said the captain.

Mr. Meyer danced up and down in his joy, while the attorney, pocketing his notes, remarked to the discomfited Captain Bryce: “You are the poorest fool I know,” and left the office.

Then Mr. Meyer calmed himself, and facing the two steamship officers, said, slowly and impressively, while he poked his forefinger almost into their faces:

“England is a fine country, my friends–a fine country to leave pehind sometimes. Dere is Canada, and der United States, and Australia, and South Africa–all fine countries, too–fine countries to go to with new names. My friends, you will be bulletined and listed at Lloyds in less than half an hour, and you will never again sail under der English flag as officers. And, my friends, let me say, that in half an hour after you are bulletined, all Scotland Yard will be looking for you. But my door is not locked.”

Silently they arose, pale, shamefaced, and crushed, and went out the door, through the outer office, and into the street.

CHAPTER XIII

Mr. Selfridge had begun to take an interest in the proceedings. As the two men passed out he arose and asked:

“Have you reached a settlement, Mr. Meyer? Will the insurance be paid?”

“No,” roared the underwriter, in the ear of the puzzled old gentleman; while he slapped him vigorously on the back; “it will not be paid. You or I must have been ruined, Mr. Selfridge, and it has settled on you. I do not pay der Titan’s insurance–nor will der other insurers. On der contrary, as der collision clause in der policy is void with der rest, your company must reimburse me for der insurance which I must pay to der Royal Age owners–that is, unless our good friend here, Mr. Rowland, who was on der lookout at der time, will swear that her lights were out.”

“Not at all,” said Rowland. “Her lights were burning–look to the old gentleman,” he exclaimed. “Look out for him. Catch him!”

Mr. Selfridge was stumbling toward a chair. He grasped it, loosened his hold, and before anyone could reach him, fell to the floor, where he lay, with ashen lips and rolling eyes, gasping convulsively.

“Heart failure,” said Rowland, as he knelt by his side. “Send for a doctor.”

“Send for a doctor,” repeated Mr. Meyer through the door to his clerks; “and send for a carriage, quick. I don’t want him to die in der office.”

Captain Barry lifted the helpless figure to a couch, and they watched, while the convulsions grew easier, the breath shorter, and the lips from ashen gray to blue. Before a doctor or carriage had come, he had passed away.

“Sudden emotion of some kind,” said the doctor when he did arrive. “Violent emotion, too. Hear bad news?”

“Bad and good,” answered the underwriter. “Good, in learning that this dear little girl was his granddaughter–bad, in learning that he was a ruined man. He was der heaviest stockholder in der Titan. One hundred thousand pounds, he owned, of der stock, all of which this poor, dear little child will not get.” Mr. Meyer looked sorrowful, as he patted Myra on the head.