Page:Arthur Stringer - The Hand of Peril.djvu/97



was late the next afternoon, as the Pannonia ploughed her way steadily westward over a smooth sea, that Wilsnach paced the white-boarded deck deep in thought. From below came the sound of guitars and mandolins, mingled with the chant of voices. On the sun-steeped hatch-coverings amidships Montenegrin mothers suckled their babies, top-booted men in sheep-skins played cards on the tar-stained canvas, children romped and chattered, while nearby a music-drunk band of Hungarians from Fiume danced their native Czardas.

Wilsnach, as he stopped and stared down over the rail at this blithe-spirited throng, found small reason for sharing in their merriment. A frown of trouble clouded his brow, and his step was heavy and listless as he turned back, and for the tenth time paused irresolutely before Kestner's cabin door.

Then he took a deep breath, knocked determinedly on the white-leaded panel, and stepped into the narrow stateroom.

He stood staring anxiously down at Kestner as the latter sat up in his berth, rubbing his eyes with his one free hand. For Kestner's left arm was in a sling, and the shoulder above it was ridged high with much bandaging. A narrow helmet of pink sticking-plaster along the top of his head stood up startlingly like a