Kennedy
in the meantime had been coolly craning his neck out of our porthole
under the rays of the arc light overhead. He was holding something
in his hand. It seemed like a little silver-backed piece of thin
glass with a flaring funnel-like thing back of it, which he held most
particularly. Though he heard the parting taunt outside he paid no
attention.
"You go to the deuce, whoever you are," I cried, beating on the door,
to which only a coarse laugh echoed back down the passageway.
"Be quiet, Walter," ordered Kennedy. "We have located the smuggled
goods in the storeroom of the steward, four wooden cases of them.
I think the stuff must have been brought on the ship in the trunks
and then transferred to the cases, perhaps after the code wireless
message was received. But we have been overpowered and locked in
a cabin with a port too small to crawl through. The cases have
been lowered over the side of the ship to a motor-boat that was
waiting below. The lights on the boat are out, but if you hurry
you can get it. The accomplices who locked us in are going to
disappear up the wharf. If you could only get the night watchman
quickly enough you could catch them, too, before they reach the
street."
I had turned, half expecting to see Kennedy talking to a ship's
officer who might have chanced on the deck outside.
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