Lanyard had no means to measure how long that dumb suspense lasted
which was imposed by the stunned faculties of all on board. It seemed
interminable. Eventually he saw Monk pick himself up and, making
strange moaning noises, like a wounded animal, throw himself upon the
door, jerk it open, and dash out.
As if he had only needed that vision of action to animate him, Lanyard
threw Phinuit off, so that he staggered across the slanting floor
toward the door. When he brought himself up by catching hold of its
frame, he was under the threat of his own pistol in Lanyard's hands. He
lingered for a moment, showing Lanyard a distraught and vacant face,
then apparently realising his danger faded away into the saloon.
With a roughness dictated by the desperate extremity, Lanyard strode
over to Liane Delorme, where she still crouched in her corner, staring
witlessly, caught her by one arm, fairly jerked her to her feet, and
thrust her stumbling out into the saloon. Closing the door behind her,
he shot its bolts.
He went to work swiftly then, in a fever of haste. In his ears the
clamour of the shipwrecked men upon the decks was only a distant
droning, hardly recognised for what it was by him who had not
one thought other than to make all possible advantage of every precious
instant; and so with the roar of steam from the escape-valves.
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