The captain's glance
followed the movement and returned sternly to his face. The young man
pointed a finger once more upwards and squeezed out of his iron-bound
throat six consecutive words of further explanation. "Through the
skylight. The white pane."
The captain raised his eyebrows very much at this, while young Powell,
ashamed but desperate, nodded insistently several times. He meant to say
that: Yes. Yes. He had done that thing. He had been spying . . . The
captain's gaze became thoughtful. And, now the confession was over, the
iron-bound feeling of Powell's throat passed away giving place to a
general anxiety which from his breast seemed to extend to all the limbs
and organs of his body. His legs trembled a little, his vision was
confused, his mind became blankly expectant. But he was alert enough. At
a movement of Anthony he screamed in a strangled whisper.
"Don't, sir! Don't touch it."
The captain pushed aside Powell's extended arm, took up the glass and
raised it slowly against the lamplight. The liquid, of very pale amber
colour, was clear, and by a glance the captain seemed to call Powell's
attention to the fact.
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