'This is the point indicated, latitude so and so, longitude so and so,'
said Mr Macrae. 'But I do not see a sail or a funnel on the western
horizon. Nothing since we left the Fleet behind us, far to the East. Yet
it is the hour. It is strange!'
Mr. Macrae was addressing Bude. They stood together on the deck of the
_Flora Macdonald_, the vast yacht of the millionaire. She was lying to
on a sea as glassy and radiant, under a blazing August sun, as the
Atlantic can show in her mildest moods. On the quarter-deck of the yacht
were piled great iron boxes containing the millions in gold with which
the millionaire had at last consented to ransom his daughter. He had
been negotiating with her captors through the wireless machine, and, as
Logan could not promise any certain release, Mr. Macrae had finally
surrendered, while informing Logan of the circumstances and details of
his rendezvous with the kidnappers. The amassing of the gold had shaken
the exchanges of two worlds. Banks trembled, rates were enormous, but
the precious metal had been accumulated. The pirates would not take Mr.
Macrae's cheque; bank notes they laughed at, the millions must be paid in
gold. Now at last the gold was on the spot of ocean indicated by the
kidnappers, but there was no sign of sail or ship, no promise of their
coming. Men with telescopes in the rigging of the _Flora_ were on the
outlook in vain. They could pick up one of the floating giants of our
fleet, far off to the East, but North, West and South were empty wastes
of water.
'Three o'clock has come and gone. I hope there has been no accident,'
said Mr. Macrae nervously. 'But where are those thieves?' He absently
pressed his repeater, it tingled out the half-hour.
'It _is_ odd,' said Bude. 'Hullo, look there, what's _that_?'
_That_ was a slim spar, which suddenly shot from the plain of ocean, at a
distance of a hundred yards. On its apex a small black hood twisted
itself this way and that like a living thing; so tranquil was the hour
that the spar with its dull hood was distinctly reflected in the mirror-
like waters of the ocean.
'By gad, it is the periscope of a submarine!' said Bude.
There could not be a doubt of it. The invention of Napier of Merchistoun
and of M. Jules Verne, now at last an actual engine of human warfare, had
been employed by the kidnappers of the daughter of the millionaire!
A light flashed on the mind, steady and serviceable, but not brilliantly
ingenious, of Mr. Macrae. 'This,' he exclaimed rather superfluously,
'accounts for the fiendish skill with which these miscreants took cover
when pursued by the Marine Police. _This_ explains the subtle art with
which they dodged observation. Doubtless they had always, somewhere, a
well-found normal yacht containing their supplies. Do you not agree with
me, my lord?'
'In my opinion,' said Bude, 'you have satisfactorily explained what has
so long puzzled us. But look! The periscope, having reconnoitred us, is
sinking again!'
It was true. The slim spar gracefully descended to the abyss. Again
ocean smiled with innumerable laughters (as the Athenian sings), smiled,
empty, azure, effulgent! The _Flora Macdonald_ was once more alone on a
wide, wide sea!
Two slight jars were now just felt by the owner, skipper, and crew of the
_Flora Macdonald_. 'What's that?' asked Mr. Macrae sharply. 'A reef?'
'In my opinion,' said the captain, 'the beggars in the submarine have
torpedoed us. Attached torpedoes to our keel, sir,' he explained,
respectfully touching his cap and shifting the quid in his cheek. He was
a bluff tar of the good old school.
'Merciful heavens!' exclaimed Mr. Macrae, his face paling. 'What can
this new outrage mean? Here on our deck is the gold; if they explode
their torpedoes the bullion sinks to join the exhaustless treasures of
the main!'
'A bit of bluff and blackmail on their part I fancy,' said Bude, lighting
a cigarette.
'No doubt! No doubt!' said Mr. Macrae, rather unsteadily. 'They would
never be such fools as to blow up the millions. Still, an accident might
have awful results.'
'Look there, sir, if you please,' said the captain of the _Flora
Macdonald_, 'there's that spar of theirs up again.'
It was so. The spar, the periscope, shot up on the larboard side of the
yacht. After it had reconnoitred, the mirror of ocean was stirred into
dazzling circling waves, and the deck of a submarine slowly emerged. The
deck was long and flat, and of a much larger area than submarines in
general have. It would seem to indicate the presence below the water of
a body or hull of noble proportions. A voice hailed the yacht from the
submarine, though no speaker was visible.
'You have no consort?' the voice yelled.
'For ten years I have been a widower,' replied Mr. Macrae, his voice
trembling with emotion.
'Most sorry to have unintentionally awakened unavailing regrets,' came
the voice. 'But I mean, honour bright, you have no attendant armed
vessel?'
'None, I promised you so,' said Mr. Macrae; 'I am a man of my word. Come
on deck if you doubt me and look for yourself.'
'Not me, and get shot by a rifleman,' said the voice.
'It is very distressing to be distrusted in this manner,' replied Mr.
Macrae. 'Captain McClosky,' he said to the skipper, 'pray request all
hands to oblige me by going below.'
The captain issued this order, which the yacht's crew rather reluctantly
obeyed. Their interest and curiosity were strongly excited by a scene
without precedent in the experience of the oldest mariner.
When they had disappeared Mr. Macrae again addressed the invisible owner
of the voice. 'All my crew are below. Nobody is on deck but Captain
McClosky, the Earl of Bude, and myself. We are entirely unarmed. You
can see for yourself.' {406}