Dusk was falling when the torpedo boat Watson turned her nose seaward
and sped away from Old Point with all the vigor of her quadruple
expansion engines. Topham had climbed on board half a minute before,
and full speed ahead had been signalled to the engines as his foot had
touched the deck.
Lieutenant Quentin, commander of the Watson, acknowledged his salute
with due ceremony. “I have been instructed by telegraph to proceed to
sea under your orders the moment you arrive, Mr. Topham,” he announced.
Topham bowed. “Very good, Mr. Quentin. Please run to the capes of the
Chesapeake, keeping as far south as possible. Have your wireless ready
for use as soon as we get outside the bay. Meanwhile I will go over the
charts with you and lay a course.”
Down in the cabin he bent over a chart spread upon the table, and
punched a small hole in it with the point of his pencil.
“The Southern Cross was here at 10 last night,” he said. “She was
bound for New York, and was running presumably about twelve knots an
hour.” He ruled a pencil line on the map and scaled off 220 miles along
it. “She should be about here?” he decided, “at nine tonight. Twenty
miles an hour would bring us to the same point at about the same hour.
Therefore, Mr. Quentin, please make your course east-southeast, nothing
south, as soon as we get to the capes.”
Quentin nodded and gave the orders. “Anything else, sir?” he questioned.
“Not just yet. Our errand is to find the Southern Cross and bring
ashore one of her passengers. So, in good time, you can give orders
to try to raise her by wireless. That’s about the only way outside of
plain bull beck that we could possibly locate her tonight.”
“Right you are!” Ceremony was satisfied, and Quentin relaxed. “Say,
Walter,” he exclaimed, “the Secretary must be in a horrible hurry to
reach her. She’d be in New York day after tomorrow.”
“It’s the President and not the Secretary, and he is in a hurry indeed.
I’m not at liberty to tell you why. The passenger--a lady--sent a
wireless ashore last night, and the message reached the President this
morning. The whole affair is to be kept a strict secret.”
“Of course. The lady’ll be expecting us, then?”
“I think not. I’m pretty sure not. But she’ll be glad to come, I think.
She’s a newspaper woman--a Miss Lillian Byrd. You know her, don’t you?”
“Know her! I should say I did. Wasn’t I sweet on her once. Why! You old
hypocrite, you know her yourself. By Jove! I’m remembering! You were
the hardest hit of all the fellows--”
But Topham shook his head. “No! that’s over long ago,” he answered,
soberly. “She turned me down very hard, and I--well, I’ve gotten over
it. This isn’t a question of romance, you know. It’s serious--more
serious than I can tell you.”
The torpedo boat heeled far over; then rolled back again. Quentin rose.
“We’ve reached the capes, evidently,” he remarked. “I’ll go to the deck
and take charge.” He glanced at the chart. “East-southeast a little
east!” he repeated. “Make yourself comfortable, old man. I’ll notify
you if anything turns up, or if the wireless man catches anything.”
But Topham shook his head. “No! I’ll come on deck, too,” he said.
Steadily the Watson thrashed eastward into the deepening night, not
rising on the waves but cutting through them and getting the full
benefit of their differential lift. Steadily, too, the wireless
operator sent his call across the waters.
It was two hours before he got an answer. Then, as ordered, he sent
word to Topham, and the latter hurried to his side.
“I’ve got the Southern Cross,” he announced.
“Good! Tell him who we are. Have him notify the captain that I wish to
come aboard him, and ask for his position and course and speed.”
The operator’s fingers played over the key--the ridiculously
exaggerated key of the wireless. Soon he stopped and noted the reply
upon a blank sheet of paper.
Topham called a messenger and sent the note to Quentin, asking him
to lay his course accordingly. Then he turned back to the wireless
operator.
“Ask him whether Miss Lillian Byrd is on board?” he said.
Promptly came an affirmative answer.
“Please tell her that Commander Topham of the Navy will be alongside
in about half an hour to take her ashore, and ask her to be ready for
transfer. Tell the captain that Mr. Topham apologizes for the trouble
he is giving, but that the matter is imperative.”
The operator tapped off the message. “The operator has gone to deliver
them, sir,” he explained. “He’ll call again in a few minutes.”
But more than a few minutes chased themselves across the clock’s face
before the Southern Cross again made herself heard. In fact, the
“Light! Ho!” of the lookout at the bow of the Watson was sounding
before her call came again.
For an instant the operator listened; then he snatched up his pencil
and began to write. Topham, looking over his shoulder, read the words.
“Miss Byrd cannot be found. Was on board at nine o’clock. Count of Ouro
Preto, another passenger, has also vanished. No trace of either found.”
“Good God! Ask him if they have no idea what has become of them!”
Again the operator wrote: “No trace of either can be found, but we
suspect Ouro Preto carried girl off. His yacht has been following us
all the way from Barbadoes. He sent a code wireless to it last night.
Saw her lights very close behind us an hour ago.”
In silent consternation Topham read the message. It confirmed his
instant guess as to what had happened. To keep his secret Ouro Preto
had snatched the girl from under the President’s very fingers. Just how
he had managed it was not of import, except as concerned the welfare of
the girl herself; and Topham was very sure by now that more important
things were at stake than the fate even of Lillian Byrd.
What should he do? What should he do?
What could he do? In what quarter of the sea should he seek for the
fleeing yacht?
Suddenly the operator began to write again. “Somebody’s breaking in,”
he explained. “Not the Southern Cross; somebody else.” His fingers
raced over the paper.
“Heard you talking,” ran the message. “This is the yacht Windbird.
Ouro Preto just came aboard bringing Miss Byrd with him. We are due
south of Southern Cross, going east. Will try to keep you advised.
Can’t say much, or I may excite suspicion. Follow.--Rutile.”