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Schofield could not explain this phenomenon to himself, nor did

he try. The orders that a man-of-war sailed under were none of

his affair, and if the captain chose to institute a hunt for the

north pole before delivering a prisoner in port, naturally he had

a perfect right to do so. It was possible, Code told himself,

that another miserable wretch was to be picked up before they

were both landed together.

Whatever course Captain Foraker intended to lay in the future his

present one was taking him as far as possible away from Grande

Mignon, St. Andrew's, and St. John's. And for this meager comfort

Code Schofield was thankful.

The sun remained above the horizon until six o'clock, and then

suddenly plumped into the sea. The early September darkness

rushed down and, as it did so, a big Tungsten light in the

ceiling of Code's room sprang into a brilliant glow, the iron

cover to the porthole being shut at the same instant.