A petite, frilly, voluptuous figure stood in the doorway. She had
an almost orchid beauty that more than suggested the parasite. Of a
type quite the opposite of Winifred, she had nevertheless something
interesting about her. For the born adventuress is always a baffling
study.
Even before Hastings whispered I knew it must be Paquita.
She passed across the porch toward a flight of steps that led down to
the shore, and as she did so nodded to Shelby with a smile, at the same
time casting a look at Winifred such as only one woman can when she is
taking in another at a glance. Winifred was first of all a woman. Her
face flushed almost imperceptibly, but her own glance of estimation
never faltered. I felt that there was a silent clash. Winifred was the
antithesis of Paquita.
Shelby failed even with his cigarette to cover up his confusion. But
as I searched his face I thought I saw one thing at least. Whatever
might or might not have been the truth in Hastings’s story of Shelby’s
acquaintance with Paquita once, it was evident now that Winifred
Walcott quite filled his eye.
As she paused before going down the steps Paquita darted back one more
look at Shelby. Had he once felt the lure? At least now he made no
move. And Paquita was insanely jealous.
“I should like to have Mr. Kennedy look over the _Sybarite_, especially
the room which I sealed,” suggested Hastings in a tone which was not
peremptory, but nevertheless was final.
Shelby looked from Hastings to Winifred. The passing of Paquita
seemed to have thrown a cloud over the sunshine which had brightened
the moments before. He was torn between two emotions. There was no
denying the request of Hastings. Yet this was no time to leave Winifred
suspicious.
“I think you had better go,” she said, finally, as Shelby hesitated.
“Would you not be one of the party?” he asked, eagerly.
“I don’t think I could stand it,” she replied, hastily.
It was perfectly natural. Yet I could see that it left Shelby uncertain
of her real reason.
Reluctantly he said good-by and we four made our way down the dock
to the float where was moored a fast tender of the yacht. We climbed
aboard, and the man in charge started the humming, many-cylindered
engine. We darted off in a cloud of spray.
Once I saw Kennedy looking back, and I looked back also. In the far
corner of the Casino stood the sallow-faced man, watching us intently.
Who and what could he be?
Westport Bay is one of those fjords, as they almost might be called,
which run in among the beautifully wooded hills of the north shore of
Long Island.
The _Sybarite_ was lying at anchor a mile or so offshore. As we
approached her we saw that she was a 150-foot, long, low-lying craft
of the new type, fitted with gas-engines, and built quite as much for
comfort as for speed. She was an elaborately built craft, with all the
latest conveniences, having a main saloon, dining-room, library, and
many state-rooms, all artistically decorated. In fact, it must have
cost a small fortune merely to run the yacht.
As we boarded it Shelby led the way to the sheltered deck aft, and we
sat down for a moment to become acquainted.
“Mito,” he called to a Japanese servant, “take the gentlemen’s hats.
And bring us cigars.”
The servant obeyed silently. Evidently Shelby spared nothing that made
for comfort.
“First of all,” began Craig, “I want to see the state-room where
Marshall Maddox slept.”
Shelby arose, apparently willingly enough, and led the way to the lower
berth deck. Hastings carefully examined the seal which he had left on
the door and, finding it intact, broke it and unlocked the door for us.
It was a bedroom rather than a state-room. The walls were paneled in
wood and the port-hole was finished inside to look like a window. It
was toward this port-hole that Kennedy first directed his attention,
opening it and peering out at the water below.
“Quite large enough for a man to get through――or throw a body through,”
he commented, turning to me.
I looked out also. “It’s a long way to the water,” I remarked, thinking
perhaps he meant that a boat might have nosed up alongside and some one
have entered that way.
“Still, if one had a good-sized cruiser, one might reach it by standing
on the roof of the cabin,” he observed. “At any rate, there’d be
difficulty in disposing of a body that way.”
He turned. The wind had swung the yacht around so that the sun streamed
in through the open port. Kennedy bent down and picked up some little
bright slivers of thin metal that lay scattered here and there on the
carpet.
He looked about at the furniture, then bent down and examined the side
of the bedstead. It seemed to be pitted with little marks. He rose,
and as he did so his gaze fell on one of the brass fittings of the
cabin. It seemed to have turned green, almost to be corroded. With his
penknife he scraped off some of the corrosion and placed it on a piece
of paper, which he folded up.
The examination of the state-room completed, Shelby took us about the
boat. First of all, he showed us the handsomely furnished main saloon
opening into a little library, almost as if it were an apartment.
“It was here,” he volunteered, “that we held the conference last night.”
For the first time I became aware, although Kennedy had noticed it
before, that when we boarded the _Sybarite_ Mito had been about. He had
passed twice down the hall while we were in the state-room occupied by
Marshall Maddox. He was now busy in the library, but on our entrance
had withdrawn deferentially, as though not wishing to intrude.
Henceforth I watched the Japanese keenly as he padded about the boat.
Everywhere we went I fancied that he turned up. He seemed ubiquitous.
Was it that he was solicitous of the wants of his master? Had he
received instructions from him? Did the slant-eyed Oriental have
something hidden behind that inscrutable face of his?
There did not seem to be anything else that we could discover aboard
the yacht. Though we interviewed the officer and those of the crew
who had been on watch, we were unable to find out from them that
anything unusual had been observed, either as far as any other boat was
concerned or on the _Sybarite_ itself. In spite of them, the affair
was as completely shrouded in mystery as ever.
Having looked the yacht over, Kennedy seemed now to be eager to get
ashore again.
“I hope you are satisfied, gentlemen?” asked Shelby at last as our tour
brought us to the mahogany steps that led from the outside of the white
hull to the tender which had brought us out.
“Very well――so far,” returned Kennedy.
Maddox looked up quickly, but did not ask what he meant. “If there is
any way in which I can be of service to you,” he continued, “you have
only to command me. I have as much reason as any one to clear up the
mystery in this unfortunate affair. I believe I will go ashore with
you.”
He did not need to say that he was eager to get back to see Winifred
Walcott, any more than Kennedy needed to tell me that he would like to
see our sallow-faced friend again.
The tender skimmed over the waves, throwing the spray gaily as we sped
back to the Harbor House dock.
We landed and Maddox excused himself, repeating his desire to aid us.
Down the beach toward the bath-houses I could make out the frilly
Paquita, surrounded now by several of the bathers, all men. Maddox saw
her, but paid no attention. He was headed for the veranda of the Lodge.
The day was growing older and the Casino was beginning to liven up. In
the exquisitely appointed ballroom, which was used also for morning and
afternoon dances, strains of the one-step attracted some dozen couples.
Kennedy sauntered along, searching the faces we passed in the hope of
seeing some one who might be of value to know on the case, now and then
reminding Hastings not to neglect to point out any one who might lend
aid. Hastings saw no one, however, and as we mounted the steps to the
Lodge excused himself for a minute to send some telegrams to those of
the family whom he had forgotten.
We had promised to meet him in the lobby by the desk, and thither
Kennedy bent his steps.
“I think I’ll look over the register,” he remarked, as we approached
the busiest part of the hotel. “Perhaps, too, some of the clerks may
know something.”
There was nothing on the register, apparently, for after turning it
around and running through it he merely laid his finger on the name
“Señorita Paquita Gonzales, Maid and Chauffeur, New York,” written
under the date of the day before the arrival of the Maddoxes for the
conference, and among the last of the day, showing that she had arrived
late.
As we were looking over the names we were startled by a voice softly
speaking behind us.
“Well, I should have known you fellows would be out here before
long. It’s a big case. Don’t notice me here. I’ll see you in the
writing-room. It’s empty now.”
We turned in surprise. It was our old friend Burke, of the Secret
Service.
He had already lounged off, and we followed without seeming to do so,
stopping only for a moment at the news-stand.
“Why are you here?” demanded Craig, pointedly, as we three settled
ourselves in an angle of the deserted writing-room.
“For the same reason that you are,” Burke returned, with a smile; then
added, gravely, “I can trust you, Kennedy.”
Craig was evidently much impressed by the low tone and the manner of
the detective, but said nothing.
“They tell me Hastings was in town this morning, at your laboratory,”
went on Burke. “Too bad he didn’t take the time to call up his office.
But he knows something now――that is, if he has that note I left for
him.”
“Why, what is that?” chorused both Craig and I.
Just then Hastings himself almost ran into the room as if his life
depended on finding us.
As he saw us he darted over to our corner.
“You are Mr. Burke, of the Secret Service?” he queried as Burke nodded.
“Kennedy, the safe in the office of Maddox Munitions in New York was
robbed late last night or early this morning, and the model of the
telautomaton is stolen!”