“Certainly,” said Hornblower.

“You have my permission,” said McCool.

The masteratarms and his assistants had to quit the crowded little room to enable Payne to do his work, while Hornblower stood in the corner and watched. Payne was quick and efficient. He made McCool strip to the skin and examined his clothes with care — seams, linings, and buttons. He crumpled each portion carefully, with his ear to the material, apparently to hear if there were papers concealed inside. Then he knelt down to the chest; the key was already in the lock, and he swung it open. Uniforms, shirts, underclothing, gloves; each article was taken out, examined, and laid aside. There were two small portraits of children, to which Payne gave special attention without discovering anything.

“The things you are looking for,” said McCool, “were all dropped overside before the prize crew could reach the Espérance. You’ll find nothing to betray my fellow countrymen, and you may as well save yourself that trouble.”

“You can put your clothes on again,” said Payne curtly to McCool. He nodded to Hornblower and hurried out again.

“A man whose politeness is quite overwhelming,” said McCool, buttoning his breeches.

“I’ll attend to your requests,” said Hornblower.

He paused only long enough to enjoin the strictest vigilance on the masteratarms and the ship’s corporals before hastening away to give orders for McCool to be given food and water, and he returned quickly. McCool drank his quart of water eagerly, and made effort to eat the ship’s biscuit and meat.

“No knife. No fork,” he commented.

“No,” replied Hornblower in a tone devoid of expression.

“I understand.”

It was strange to stand there gazing down at this man who was going to die tomorrow, biting not very efficiently at the lump of tough meat which he held to his teeth.

The bulkhead against which Hornblower leaned vibrated slightly, and the sound of a gun came faintly down to them. It was the signal that the court martial was about to open.