The space through which Jane had passed held Dennison's gaze for two or
three minutes. Then he sat down on the companionway step, his arms across
his knees and his forehead upon his arms. What to say? What to do? She
expected him to be amusing!--when he knew that the calm on board was of
the same deceptive quality as that of the sea--below, the terror!

It did not matter that the crew was of high average. They would not be
playing such a game unless they were a reckless lot. At any moment they
might take it into their heads to swarm over Cunningham and obliterate
him. Then what? If the episode of the morning had not convinced Jane, what
would? The man Flint had dropped his mask; the others were content to wear
theirs yet awhile. Torture for her sake, the fear of what might actually
be in store for her, and she expected him to talk and act like a chap out
of a novel!

Ordinarily so full of common sense, what had happened to her that her
vision should become so obscured as not to recognize the danger of the
man? Had he been ugly, Jane would probably have ignored him. But that face
of his, as handsome as a Greek god's, and that tongue with its roots in
oil! And there was his deformity--that had drawn her pity. Playing with
her, and she deliberately walked into the trap because he was amusing! Why
shouldn't he be, knowing that he held their lives in the hollow of his
hand? What imp of Satan wouldn't have been amiable?