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"You lie!" shouted Mendoza, losing control of himself. "Who is the traitor?"

"Since you doubt my word, it is unnecessary to discuss the matter further."

"No, no!" almost shrieked the excitable Spaniard. "I know now it is no lie. Who is the rascal who would cheat me?"

"That is my business," said Mr. Heatherington.

"I know! It is Lopez. Lopez is the traitor. I will deal with him in good time. I retract my offer. You will reveal the secret of the black pearls, or I will throw all three of you, and Gregory too, to the sharks."

"And add murder to mutiny: rather doubling your risk of testing a six-foot drop, isn't it?" remarked Mr. Heatherington coolly.

"Murder? What do I care about killing a man?" retorted Mendoza. "You will see."

He rushed from the cabin, shouting to some of the crew. Four of the mutineers hurried up, seized all the prisoners and led them on deck. As they stood blinking in the dazzling sunlight Mendoza gripped Mr. Heatherington by the shoulder.

"Look there!" he exclaimed, and pointed to the corpse of the mutineer he had shot down. "Look there! That man died by my hand. I, Pedro Mendoza, declare it. Have you seen enough? Good! Now listen. I give you all three five minutes. If at the end of five minutes you do not reveal the secret of where the black pearls lie then I swear to throw you to the sharks."

The armed seamen led the prisoners to the lee rail. Other mutineers at Mendoza's order lifted the body of their comrade and launched it over the side. Before the corpse had been left more than twenty yards astern the water was tinged with blood as a number of voracious sharks fought for their prey.

"Five minutes!" announced Mendoza. "Do you consent?"

"No," replied Mr. Heatherington.

"Overboard with that one first," ordered the mutineer captain, carelessly indicating Peter Arkendale.

CHAPTER VII. THE SKIPPER OF THE "SVEND"

"Keep together, lads!" exclaimed Mr. Heatherington. "Make a fight for it!"

The three, facing outwards, confronted the crowd of mutineers. Better, as Mr. Heatherington had hinted at, to fight to the last than to be bound and thrown overboard to feed the ravenous sharks.

For several seconds there was a pause. The Spaniards hesitated to hurl themselves upon the three unarmed but resolute Britons. Even Mendoza took good care to stand behind a couple of his myrmidons, but his olivine features stopped a crashing blow from the fist of one of his captives.

Several of the mutineers drew their revolvers, but forbore to shoot. It was poor sport, they argued, to put a bullet through a man's head when they might extract considerable amusement out of prolonging his agony. They looked inquiringly at Mendoza for instructions, but the mutineer-in-chief hesitated to order his men to close with and overpower the trio.

As a matter of fact Mendoza had no intention of putting his threat into execution. With Heatherington and his youthful companions dead the secret of the black pearls would be lost for good. It was quite possible, he hoped, to terrorize them into revealing the exact locality where the beds were situated. Delicately handled, the problem ought to be solved, especially if he could play off one prisoner against another. Failing that, he might extract a good ransom, and then, having obtained the money, get rid of his victims on the principle that dead men tell no tales.

But the present difficulty was how to rescind his order without loss of so-called dignity. His hot blood had cooled sufficiently for him to realize that, and he upbraided himself for having lost his temper at such an early stage of the proceedings.

An excited hail from one of the look-out men provided a timely diversion. A sail had been sighted emerging from a slight haze at a distance of about a mile on the Paloma's starboard bow.

Mendoza gave an order. The mutineers surrounding Mr. Heatherington and the two lads formed a semi-circle, leaving the prisoners free to make for the companion ladder.

"I will not throw you to the sharks this time," announced Mendoza. "Go below. Stop in your cabin and give no trouble. Then you will be safe."

Fully anticipating another act of treachery, the three prisoners backed slowly towards the companion-ladder. By way of contrast to the dazzling sunshine the hatchway with its brass-treaded teak ladder looked black and forbidding. It was easy for one of the mutineers stationed below to slash at their legs as they descended; but once below they realized that they could put up a tougher resistance than if they were on deck.

The way was clear. No hostile hand delivered a recreant blow. Physically unharmed yet morally shaken by the reaction of the last quarter of an hour the three regained the cabin which had been allotted to them as a place of detention.

The moment they were inside they slammed and bolted the door, a precaution that was duplicated by the mutineers, who promptly placed a handspike across the door-post and passed a lashing round it and through the gun-metal handle on the outside.

There were three scuttles opening out on the starboard quarter, but although commanding a wide view they did not embrace the quarter of the sea where the strange sail was sighted.

It was a perfectly calm day. The sea was like a sheet of glass, unbroken save for the ripples caused by the bow wave and the frothing wake of the yacht as she forged ahead at a modest eight knots.

"What do you make of her, Miguel?" asked Mendoza, who, having rejoined his second in command on the bridge, was keeping the approaching craft under observation by means of binoculars.

"Pearler," replied Miguel Fe laconically.

Mendoza nodded thoughtfully. There were, he knew, hundreds of pearling schooners amongst the islands. They were almost invariably manned by Kanakas under the command of a white man, who generally was a drink-sodden beachcomber. He decided to close and communicate. If the stranger had pearls on board, her cargo would be acceptable booty. If she had not, that was to be deplored; but in that case he would not hesitate to take off her native crew. Kanakas were generally inoffensive, docile creatures, invaluable in working a ship in the tropics, and, what was more, skilled in diving for the treasure of the lagoon.

The schooner was rolling almost imperceptibly in the gentle swell. Her sun-bleached and salt-stained canvas hung idly from her yards. Her headsails had been stowed. Over the low bulwarks leaned half a dozen bronze-hued natives who were regarding the yacht with languid interest.

For a pearler the schooner was remarkably kept. Her sides were well painted and, as she rolled, it was seen that her bottom was coppered and well scrubbed. Her standing rigging was well set up, and generally she had the appearance of being a well-found craft.

"Port another point, quartermaster," ordered Mendoza.

The alteration in helm brought the Paloma bows on to the stranger—a manœuvre that caused the Kanaka crew to evince considerably more interest in the yacht than they had previously shown.

Under the mutineer captain's orders a dozen of the crew, armed with revolvers and knives, concealed themselves under the poop. Others, outwardly unarmed, hung about the waist.

At a sign from Mendoza the yacht was given more port helm, Peruvian colours were hoisted on the yacht's ensign-staff, and the international signal ID, signifying "Heave-to or I will fire into you" was displayed from her foremast head. Simultaneously the Paloma's engineers received the order to ease down, followed by "stop".

Although the yacht's signals were not understood by the Kanaka crew, the latter were by now fully aware that something out of the usual was taking place. One of them was observed to go to the skylight and give the alarm. Presently the skipper of the schooner appeared on deck with a roll of coloured bunting under his arm.