He was on duty during the night just past, and had picked up several indistinct, incomplete radio messages.

There was nothing wrong with the receiving or transmitting apparatus when he went off duty at six in the morning, and as his superior came on at the same hour,--they exchanged greetings at the door of the wireless house,--it was absolutely impossible for any one to have entered the well-guarded room without attracting attention.
Cruise, the chief radio-man, had his assistant routed out of bed and together they worked like beavers over the disabled mechanism.
Hour after hour, the nervous, uneasy passengers paced the decks.

Few remained indoors, and few possessed the calmness to loll in deck-chairs.
Percival toiled cheerfully, but with eye and ear alert for the first inkling of definite peril.

With commendable thoughtfulness, he had shed the clean white shirt and collar so generously supplied by his fellow townsman, and had donned a commodious sea-jacket.
He could not help observing the dark, suspicious glances cast upon him by the deck-walkers, nor were his ears proof against audible comments.
Mothers nudged their children and said, in slightly lowered but distinctly impressive tones: "That's the man.

He's a stowaway." "See, Wilfred,--see the man?
No, no! The one with the mop, dear.