“But the very monstrosity of appearances silenced Anthony after the first exclamation; and young Powell felt himself pierced through and through by the overshadowed glance of his captain. Anthony advanced quietly. The first impulse of Mr. Powell, when discovered, had been to dash the glass on the deck. He was in a sort of panic. But deep down within him his wits were working, and the idea that if he did that he could prove nothing and that the story he had to tell was completely incredible, restrained him. The captain came forward slowly. With his eyes now close to his, Powell, spellbound, numb all over, managed to lift one finger to the deck above mumbling the explanatory words, ‘Boatswain on the poop.’
“The captain moved his head slightly as much as to say, ‘That’s all right’—and this was all. Powell had no voice, no strength. The air was unbreathable, thick, sticky, odious, like hot jelly in which all movements became difficult. He raised the glass a little with immense difficulty and moved his trammelled lips sufficiently to form the words:
“ ‘Doctored.’
“Anthony glanced at it for an instant, only for an instant, and again fastened his eyes on the face of his second mate. Powell added a fervent ‘I believe’ and put the glass down on the tray. The captain’s glance followed the movement and returned sternly to his face. The young man pointed a finger once more upwards and squeezed out of his iron-bound throat six consecutive words of further explanation. ‘Through the skylight. The white pane.’
“The captain raised his eyebrows very much at this, while young Powell, ashamed but desperate, nodded insistently several times. He meant to say that: Yes. Yes. He had done that thing. He had been spying … The captain’s gaze became thoughtful. And, now the confession was over, the iron-bound feeling of Powell’s throat passed away giving place to a general anxiety which from his breast seemed to extend to all the limbs and organs of his body. His legs trembled a little, his vision was confused, his mind became blankly expectant. But he was alert enough. At a movement of Anthony he screamed in a strangled whisper.
“ ‘Don’t, sir! Don’t touch it.’
“The captain pushed aside Powell’s extended arm, took up the glass and raised it slowly against the lamplight. The liquid, of very pale amber colour, was clear, and by a glance the captain seemed to call Powell’s attention to the fact. Powell tried to pronounce the word, ‘dissolved’ but he only thought of it with great energy which however failed to move his lips. Only when Anthony had put down the glass and turned to him he recovered such a complete command of his voice that he could keep it down to a hurried, forcible whisper—a whisper that shook him.
“ ‘Doctored! I swear it! I have seen. Doctored! I have seen.’
“Not a feature of the captain’s face moved. His was a calm to take one’s breath away. It did so to young Powell. Then for the first time Anthony made himself heard to the point.
“ ‘You did! … Who was it?’
“And Powell gasped freely at last. ‘A hand,’ he whispered fearfully, ‘a hand and the arm—only the arm—like that.’
“He advanced his own, slow, stealthy, tremulous in faithful reproduction, the tips of two fingers and the thumb pressed together and hovering above the glass for an instant—then the swift jerk back, after the deed.
“ ‘Like that,’ he repeated growing excited. ‘From behind this.’ He grasped the curtain and glaring at the silent Anthony flung it back disclosing the forepart of the saloon. There was no one to be seen.
“Powell had not expected to see anybody. ‘But,’ he said to me, ‘I knew very well there was an ear listening and an eye glued to the crack of a cabin door. Awful thought. And that door was in that part of the saloon remaining in the shadow of the other half of the curtain. I pointed at it and I suppose that old man inside saw me pointing. The captain had a wonderful self-command. You couldn’t have guessed anything from his face. Well, it was perhaps more thoughtful than usual. And indeed this was something to think about. But I couldn’t think steadily. My brain would give a sort of jerk and then go dead again. I had lost all notion of time, and I might have been looking at the captain for days and months for all I knew before I heard him whisper to me fiercely: “Not a word!” This jerked me out of that trance I was in and I said “No! No! I didn’t mean even you.”
“ ‘I wanted to explain my conduct, my intentions, but I read in his eyes that he understood me and I was only too glad to leave off. And there we were looking at each other, dumb, brought up short by the question “What next?”
“ ‘I thought Captain Anthony was a man of iron till I saw him suddenly fling his head to the right and to the left fiercely, like a wild animal at bay not knowing which way to break out …’
“Truly,” commented Marlow, “brought to bay was not a bad comparison; a better one than Mr. Powell was aware of. At that moment the appearance of Flora could not but bring the tension to the breaking point. She came out in all innocence but not without vague dread. Anthony’s exclamation on first seeing Powell had reached her in her cabin, where, it seems, she was brushing her hair. She had heard the very words. ‘What are you doing here?’ And the unwonted loudness of the voice—his voice—breaking the habitual stillness of that hour would have startled a person
