it's getting creepy standing here and staring your eyes out. I'm
beginning to see the trees moving around and coming at you, and in
every bit of breeze the leaves are like a lot of bloody voices
whispering in your ears. I wish to Gawd you hadn't said anything about
_that_ night! It gives me the--"
"Look!" said the Frenchman suddenly.
From an upper window, out of the blackness of the building across the
lawn, there showed a faint spot of light that held for a few
seconds--and then, in quick succession, a series of little flashes came
from the room within.
The two men stood motionless, intent, staring at the window.
The flashes ceased.
The Frenchman reached out and laid his hand on Runnells' arm.
"No need for a repeat," he said quickly. "You got it, didn't you?"
"My word!" exclaimed Runnells. "Two guards--butler's pantry--all
clear! Strike me pink!"
The Frenchman laughed purringly under his breath.
"Did I not say he was incomparable? Come on, then, Runnells--quickly
now!"
And now it was as though two shadows moved, flitting swiftly across the
lawn, and along the edge of the building and around to the rear. And
here they crouched before a doorway, and the Frenchman whispered:
"Don't be delicate about it, Runnells. This isn't any _inside_ job!
Nick it up badly enough so's a blind man could see where we got in."
"That's what I'm doing," said Runnells mechanically. His mind seemed
obsessed with other things. "Two guards!" he muttered. And again:
"Strike me pink!"
And after a moment, with both door and frame eloquent of the rough
surgery that had been practised upon them, the door opened.
The two men entered, and closed the door silently behind them. An
electric torch stabbed suddenly through the blackness and played for a
moment inquisitively over its surroundings.
"'Tain't changed a bit, as I said when I saw the plan," commented
Runnells.
They went on quickly. But where before there had been a steady play of
the electric torch it winked now through the darkness only at
intervals. A door opened here and there noiselessly; the footsteps of
the men were cautious, wary, almost without sound. And then, as they
halted finally, and the torch shot out its ray again, Runnells drew in
his breath with a low, catchy, whistling sound.
The torch disclosed a narrow serving pantry, and, on the floor at one
side, a great metal box or chest--obviously the object of their visit.
But Runnells for the moment was apparently not interested in the chest.
"Look at that!" he breathed hoarsely--and pointed to the farther end of
the pantry where a swinging door was ajar, and through which an
upturned foot protruded.
The Frenchman set his bags down beside the metal chest, moved swiftly
forward, pushed the swinging door open, and stepped silently through
into what was obviously the dining room. And Runnells, beside him,
whispered hoarsely again, but this time with a sort of amazed
admiration in his voice.
"Gawd!" said Runnells. "Neat, I calls that! Neat! What?"
Two men lay upon the floor, gagged, bound and apparently unconscious.
One, from his livery, was a servant in the house; the other was in
civilian clothes.
Paul Cremarre pointed to the latter.
"The man that came out from London with the box from the bank," he
observed complacently. He pushed Runnells back through the swinging
door into the pantry. "Well, my Runnells, you were grumbling over a
few minutes' delay, let us see if we can be equally as expeditious and
efficient with infinitely less to do." He reached the chest and
examined it. "Padlocks, eh? Let me see if I can persuade them!" He
bent over the chest, and from his pocket came a little kit of tools.
Runnells stood silently by. There was no sound now save the breathing
of the two men, and, as the minutes passed, an occasional faint,
metallic rasp and click from Paul Cremarre at work.
And then the Frenchman flung back the lid, and straightened up.
"Quick now, Runnells--to work!" he said briskly. "Père Mouche is
waiting for his _ragoût_!"
"My eye!" said Runnells with enthusiasm, as the electric torch bored
into the interior of the box. "Pipe it! I've served with the swells,
I have, and Lord Seeton was one of the biggest of 'em, but I never saw
the likes of this before. Gold plate to eat off of! My eye!"
"They are very beautiful," said the Frenchman judicially; "but it would
be a sacrilege against art to appraise them in haste and in a poor
light. Work quickly, Runnells! And do not fill any one of the bags
too full. You will find it heavy. The four will hold it all
comfortably."
"Gawd!" said Runnells eagerly, as he bent to his task.
The men worked swiftly now, without words, transferring the Earl of
Cloverley's priceless service of gold plate to the four travelling
bags. The Frenchman, the quicker of the two, completed his task first,
and locked his two bags. And then suddenly he touched Runnells on the
shoulder.
"Listen!" he whispered. "What's that?"
Faintly, scarcely audible, there came a curiously padded, swishing
sound--like slippered feet. It came from the direction, not of the
swing door where the two guards lay, but from beyond the door through
which Runnells and the Frenchman had entered the pantry.
"It's some one coming, all right," Runnells whispered back.
"But only _one_," said the Frenchman instantly. "Quick! Finish your
job--but don't make a sound." There was a sudden, vicious snarl in his
whisper. "Pull that hat of yours down over your eyes. I'll answer the
door, as you English say!"
He moved back along the pantry with the noiseless tread of a cat, and
took up his position against the wall at the edge of the closed door.
From his pocket he drew a revolver. It was quite black, quite silent
now--save for the approaching footsteps.
Perhaps a minute passed.
And then the door opened, and a light went on. A grey-whiskered little
man in a dressing gown, with bare feet thrust into slippers, stood on
the threshold. He cast startled eyes on a crouching figure in the
centre of the pantry, the tell-tale travelling bags, the gaping
treasure chest, and wrenched a revolver from the pocket of his dressing
gown. But the Frenchman, reaching out, struck from the edge of the
doorway. The revolver sailed ceilingwards from the other's hand, and
exploded in mid-air. And coincidently the Frenchman struck again--with
the butt of his own weapon--and the man went limply to the floor.
Runnells came staggering forward under the load of the bags.
"Strike me dead!" he gasped, "if it ain't the nosey old bird himself!
Serves him proper--sneaking around to make sure he ain't paying money
for nothing, and hoping he'll catch 'em asleep on sentry-go!"
The Frenchman snatched up two of the bags.
"Quick!" he said tersely.
Captain Francis Newcombe raised his head from his pillow, and propped
himself up on his elbow. A door nearby suddenly opened. Other doors
were being rapped upon. Voices came.
The ex-captain of territorials sprang from his bed, thrust his feet
into slippers, threw a bathrobe over his pajamas, opened his door and
stepped out into the hall. Some one had already turned on a light. He
found himself amongst a group of fellow guests, whose number was being
constantly augmented. From other doorways, wary of their extreme
dishabille, women's faces peered out timidly--their voices, less
restrained, demanding to know what was the matter, added an hysterical
note to the scene.
"A shot was certainly fired somewhere in the house, though I couldn't
place where it came from," declared some one. "I am quite sure of it."
"There is no question about it," corroborated another. "It woke me up,
and I ran out here into the hall."
"The Earl is not in his room!" announced a third excitedly. "I've just
been there."
"Ring for the servants!" screeched an elderly female voice. "Some one
may be killed!"
"For God's sake!" snapped a man gruffly. "I didn't hear it myself, but
if a shot was fired it's fairly obvious by now that it wasn't fired up
_here_! What are you standing around like a pack of sheep for?"
"That's what I was wondering," said Captain Francis Newcombe softly to
himself--and joined the now concerted rush down the stairway.
Lights were going on all over the house now, and the men servants began
to appear. The rush scurried from one room to another. A cry went up
from some one ahead. It turned the rush into the dining room, and
there, in their motley garbs, chorusing excited exclamations, the crowd
surrounded the two gagged and bound guards.
Then some one else shouted from the pantry that the metal chest had
been broken open, and that the gold service was gone. There was
another rush in that direction. Captain Francis Newcombe accompanied
this rush. On the floor lay a revolver. The ex-captain of
territorials picked it up.
"Hello!" he ejaculated. "It's rather queer this has been left
behind--or perhaps it belongs to one of the two out there in the dining
room."
"No, sir," said one of the servants at his elbow. "It's the Earl's,
sir. I'd know it anywhere. And, begging your pardon, sir, it's a bit
strange that _he_ hasn't been seen since--"
"Here he is!" cried a voice from beyond the farther pantry door.
"Here, lend a hand! The Earl's been hurt."
Captain Francis Newcombe aiding, the Earl was carried back to the
dining room, and restoratives hastily applied. Here, the man in
livery, released now, his voice weak and unsteady, was telling his
story; his companion was still unconscious.
"... Gawd knows," the man was saying. "We was in the pantry, and Brown
there 'e thought 'e 'eard a sound out 'ere in the dining room. And 'e
gets up and pushes the swinging door open and goes through, and a
minute later I 'ears what I thinks is 'im calling me. ''Ere, quick,
Johnston!' 'e says. And I goes through the door, and something bashes
me over the 'ead, and I goes out. What 'appened though is as clear as
daylight now. Brown goes through the door and gets hit on the 'ead,
and I goes through the door and gets hit on the 'ead. And it wasn't
Brown as called to me, it was the blighter that did us in, and--"
The Earl's voice broke in suddenly.
"I'm all right, I tell you!" he insisted weakly. "There were two of
them ... one behind the door knocked the revolver out of my hand as I
fired, and smashed me over the head with something ... bags, travelling
bags for the plate ... that's the way they're carrying it ... I--"
The Earl's voice trailed off.
"It can't have been more than five minutes ago then," said the man with
the gruff voice, "for they were therefore in the house when the shot
was fired. They can't have got very far carrying that load. Quick
now! We'll search the park."
"But they wouldn't attempt to carry it very far anyway," objected some
one. "They'd have a motor, of course."
"Exactly!" retorted the other. "But not near enough to the house to be
heard. Did any one hear a motor after that shot was fired? Of course,
not! We may get them before they get their motor. Also, we'll use a
motor too! Any one of the chauffeurs here?"
"Yes, sir," answered a man.
"Good! Any one armed?"
"I've got the Earl's revolver," said Captain Francis Newcombe.
"Well, there's the gun room," said the man who had assumed command.
"And you servants get lanterns and things. Look lively, now! Sharp's
the word!"
And for some reason Captain Francis Newcombe smiled grimly to himself,
as he attached his person to the chauffeur, and, accompanied by three
other pajama-clad guests, raced from the house.
At the garage Captain Francis Newcombe appropriated the front seat
beside the chauffeur, his fellow guests scrambled into the tonneau, and
a moment later the big car shot around the end of the house and began
to sweep down the driveway. The ex-captain of territorials screwed
around in his seat for a backward glance as they tore along. Every
window in the great, rambling, castle-like edifice appeared to be
alight; this caused a filmy, lighted zone without, and through this
raced ghostly figures in bathrobes and dressing gowns that were almost
instantly swallowed up in the shadows of the trees; and from amongst
the trees, dancing in and out, like huge fireflies in their effect,
there showed in constantly increasing numbers the glint of lanterns.
But now the motor was at the lodge gates, nosing the main road, and the
chauffeur pulled up.
"Which way would you say, sir?" he asked anxiously.
"I'd vote for whichever is the shortest way to London--that's to the
left, isn't it?" Captain Francis Newcombe responded promptly. He
turned to his fellow guests. "I don't know what you think about it?"
"Yes," one of the others answered, "I'd say that's the way they'd most
likely take."
"Very good, sir!" said the chauffeur. "Left, it is, and--" He broke
short off. "There they are!" he cried excitedly. "Listen! They're
coming out of that lane there, over to the right!" He swung the motor
sharply into the straight of the main road. "There they are! See
'em!" he cried again, as the headlights brought the rear of a speeding
motor into view. "The old general back there in the house was right.
They didn't bring their motor any nearer for fear it would be heard.
That's where it has been--up the lane there. But we've got 'em now!
This old girl'll touch seventy and never turn a hair."
"Corking!" contributed Captain Francis Newcombe enthusiastically.
"You're sure of the seventy, are you?"
"Rather!" exclaimed the chauffeur. "Look for yourself, sir. We're
overhauling them now like one o'clock."
The ex-captain of territorials for a moment stared intently along the
headlights' rays to where, gradually, the other motor was coming more
and more into focus.
"By Jove, I believe you're right!" he agreed heartily--and from the
pocket of his dressing gown produced the Earl's revolver.
The motor was lurching now with the speed. A hundred yards intervening
between the flying cars diminished to seventy-five--to fifty. _Still
closer_! The men in the tonneau clung to their seats. Twenty-five
yards!
Captain Francis Newcombe shouted to his companions over the roar and
sweep of the wind.
"I'll take a pot at the beggars, and see if that'll stop 'em!" he
yelled. "Better chance over the top of the windshield, what?"
Captain Francis Newcombe stood up, swayed with the car, fired twice in
quick succession and once after a short pause over the top of the
windshield--but the ex-captain of territorials' mark seemed curiously
comprehensive in expanse, for his eyes were at the same time searching
the side of the road ahead. And now there showed at the end of the
headlight's path a hedgerow bordering close against the side of the
road. Captain Francis Newcombe fired again, but as the car lurched now
the ex-captain of territorials seemed momentarily to lose his balance,
and with the lurch swayed heavily against the chauffeur's arm.
There was a startled yell from the chauffeur; a vicious swerve--and the
big motor leaped at the hedge. Came a crash of splintering glass as
Captain Francis Newcombe was pitched head first against the windshield;
a rip and rend and tear as the motor bucked and plunged and twisted in
its conflict with the thick, heavy hedge; and then a terrific jolt that
in its train brought a full stop.
And Captain Francis Newcombe, flung back and half out of the car, put
his hands to his eyes and brought them away wet from a great gush of
blood.
"Carry on! Carry on!" he cried weakly. "You'll never have a better
chance to get them."
"My God!" screamed the chauffeur. "Carry on? We're a bally wreck!"
"What beastly luck!" murmured Captain Francis Newcombe--and lost
consciousness.
--V--
"DEAR GUARDY"
Captain Francis Newcombe, a bandage swathing his head from the tip of
his nose upward, groped out with his hand for a glass that stood on the
bedside table, succeeded only in upsetting it, and swore savagely under
his breath. At the same moment, he heard the front door of his
apartment open and close.
"Runnells!" he shouted irritably. "D'ye hear, Runnells? Come here!"
A footstep came hurriedly along the hall, and the door of the bedroom
opened.
Paul Cremarre stood on the threshold.
"It is not Runnells," said the Frenchman, staring at the bed. "I used
my key. I saw Runnells and another man go out a few minutes ago."
"You, Paul!" exclaimed Captain Francis Newcombe quickly. "I did not
expect you to return from France until to-morrow. I thought Runnells
had forgotten something and come back. That was the doctor with him.
Runnells has gone out for supplies. They've only just brought me back
from Cloverley's this morning, and the place here was pretty well
cleaned out of necessities."
The Frenchman moved over to the bedside, and grasped Captain Francis
Newcombe's hand.
"Monsieur," he said earnestly, "I am desolated to see you like this.
How am I to tell you of my gratitude? How am I to tell you what I owe
you? We would have been caught. In two or three more little minutes,
Runnells and I would have been _pouf_!"
"That seemed rather obvious," said Captain Francis Newcombe dryly.
"_Bon Dieu!_" ejaculated the Frenchman. "Yes! I heard from Runnells,
of course--the whole story in code. There is only one man who would
have done that. I, Paul Cremarre, will never forget it. Never! And I
say again that I am desolated to see you like this. Runnells said your
eyes were very badly injured."
"That is Runnells' lack of balance in the use of English," said the
ex-captain of territorials. "There is nothing whatever the matter with
my _eyes_. If I am blind for the moment, it is because my eyelids are
kept shut by some damned medical method of torture, and because of this
bandage. When I took a header into the broken windshield, I got a bit
of a cut that beginning with the bridge of my nose had a go straight
across on each side just under the eyebrows. They've made a bit of a
fuss over it, wouldn't let me come home until now, and I must still be
tucked up in bed, but--"
"It is more than you make out," said the Frenchman gravely. "I know
that. But that your eyes are saved--that is luck!"
"Quite so!" Captain Francis Newcombe shrugged his shoulders. "And
you?--speaking of luck."
"The best!" replied the Frenchman in a low, quick tone. "Père Mouche
has had his _ragoût_, and afterwards another that was so hot
that--would you believe it?--it melted the dishes. And, besides, he
has had a stroke of good fortune in getting rid of some other stock, a
lot of it, on the continent. There will be a nice bank account in a
day or so--to-morrow, if you want any." His voice grew suddenly less
buoyant. "But just the same, it is well that we are taking a holiday.
It has caused a furor. The papers, the Earl, Scotland Yard--how they
buzz! And the Prefecture more suspicious than ever! Your English
journals are like spoiled children. They will not stop crying, and
they are very bad tempered about it. This morning, for instance. I
have one here. Shall I read to you what it says?"
"Good heavens--no!" expostulated Captain Francis Newcombe hastily.
"Everybody from the Earl down to Runnells has read that stuff to me for
a week! If you want to do anything that smacks of intelligence you can
get me another drink in place of the one I knocked over when you came
in--you know where the Scotch is; and if you want to do any reading see
if there is any mail for me. I mentioned letters but the doctor said
no. However, the doctor is gone, so look on the desk in the living
room."
"All right," said the Frenchman, as he turned briskly away. "_Un petit
coup_ is decidedly in order this morning. I will have one with you."
He was back presently from his errand. He filled the glasses, and
placed one in Captain Francis Newcombe's hand.
"_Salut, mon capitaine!_" he said. "Here's to the cash the little Père
Mouche is getting ready for us--a fat, a very nice fat little dividend!"
"Good!" said the ex-captain of territorials. "How about the mail? Any
letters?"
"I've got them here," Paul Cremarre answered. "There were only three."
"Well, what are they?" demanded Captain Francis Newcombe.
The Frenchman examined the first of the letters in his hand.
"A city letter from Hipplewaite, Jones & Simpkins, Solicitors--"
Captain Francis Newcombe chuckled.
"That's about a hen Runnells ran over a month or so ago. Extremely
valuable fowl! Poultry show stock, and all that, you know. What has
the price risen to now?"
Paul Cremarre tore the letter open.
"Two pounds, ten and six," he said.
"Still much too cheap!" grinned Captain Francis Newcombe. "The man is
simply robbing himself. Chuck it away before Runnells sees it. He
could have settled for a pound three weeks ago. What's next?"
The Frenchman examined another envelope.
"City letter again," he said. "From 'The Sabbath House.'"
"Ah, yes!" said Captain Francis Newcombe gravely. "Most worthy object.
Gave 'em ten quid last month. A mission down in Whitechapel, you know.
Elevation of the unelevated, and all that. Shocking conditions! I
must see that your name goes on that list."
"Shall I tear it up?" drawled the Frenchman.
"Yes," said Captain Newcombe.
The Frenchman remained silent for a moment.
"Well?" prompted the ex-captain of territorials. "You said there were
three."
"I have put the other on the table beside you," said the Frenchman.
"It is _intime_. The stamp from America. The handwriting of a lady.
You will read it yourself when you are able."
"Able!" echoed Captain Francis Newcombe, with sudden asperity. "I
won't be able to do anything for another week, let alone read. Open
it! You know damned well it's only from my ward in America. And since
I'm going out there as soon as I'm fit again, I'm rather keen to know
what her immediate plans are. She was going to a school friend's home
for the summer. I've explained to you before that her mother did a
rather big thing for me once, and I'm trying to repay the debt. Open
it, and read it to me. There's nothing private about it."
"But, certainly!" agreed the Frenchman, as he opened the letter. "It
is only that you are both young, and that the thought crossed my mind
you--"
"Read the letter!" snapped Captain Francis Newcombe. "If there's any
enclosure for her mother, you can lay that aside."
"There is no enclosure," returned the Frenchman good-humouredly.
"Well, then, listen! I read:
The Corals,
Manwa Island, Florida Keys,
Tuesday, June 30th.
DEAR GUARDY:
You knew, of course, I was going to visit Dora Marlin and her father,
Mr. Jonathan P. Marlin, this summer, so you won't be altogether
surprised at the above address. You see, we came here a little sooner
than I expected, so that your last letter, forwarded on from New York,
has just reached me.
I am wild with delight to know that you have decided to come out to
America for a visit. I showed your letter at once to Dora and Mr.
Marlin, and they absolutely insist that you come here as their guest.
You will, won't you? You old dear! You'll have to, else you won't see
me--so there! You see, we're on an island in the Florida Keys, and
it's ever so far from the mainland, and there's no other place on it to
stay except with us. I wonder, I wonder if you'll know me? I'm not
the little Polly I was, you know.
Oh, guardy, it's simply wonderful here! The house is really a castle,
and it's built mostly of coral, and is so pretty; and the foliage is a
dream--the whole island, and it's really an awfully big one, is just
like a huge garden. And, too, it's just like a little world all of
your own. The servants are mostly negroes, with pickaninnies running
around, and they live in jolly little bungalows, ever and ever so many
of them, that peep out of the trees at you everywhere you go. And then
there is the aquarium. It's Mr. Marlin's hobby. I couldn't begin to
describe it. I never knew such beautiful and wonderful and queer
creatures existed in the sea.
Dora's a dear, of course. I'm sure you'll lose your heart to her at
once. And I've already grown so fond of Mr. Marlin, and the more so,
perhaps, because Dora is frightfully worried about him. I am afraid
there is something very serious the matter with his mind, though a
great deal of the time he appears to be quite normal. I don't
understand it, of course, because it is all about the financial
conditions in the world; but anyway--
Paul Cremarre stopped reading aloud abruptly. There was a moment of
silence while his eyes swept swiftly on to the end of the paragraph.
"Well?" inquired Captain Francis Newcombe. "What's the matter? Have
you lost your place?"
The Frenchman drew in his breath sharply.
"_Bon Dieu!_" he exclaimed excitedly. "Listen to this! It is the lamp
of Aladdin! It is the Isle of Croesus! We are rich! It is superb!
It is magnificent! Listen! I read again:
--he has a great sum of money in banknotes here; half a million
dollars, he said. He showed it to me. It was hard to believe there
was so much. Why, you could just make a little bundle of it and put it
under your arm. I asked him why he had it here, and he patted it and
smiled at me, and told me it was the only safe thing to do. And then
he tried to explain a lot of things to me about money that I couldn't
understand at all.
Paul Cremarre looked up, and waved the letter about jubilantly.
"Yes, yes!" he cried. "I am awake! See! I pinch myself! It is
amazing! In banknotes! In American money! _That_ is valuable, eh?
And a little bundle that one could put under one's arm!"
Captain Francis Newcombe's lips were a straight line under the bandages.
"I'm afraid I don't get the point," he said coldly.
"The point!" Paul Cremarre's face was flushed now, his eyes burned
with excitement. "But, sacre nom, the point is--a half million dollars
in cash. And so easy! It is ours for the taking. The man is--ha,
ha!--yes, I learned something in the war from the Americans--he is what
they call a nut!" He tapped his forehead. "And from the nut we
extract the kernel! Yes?"
"I think not!" said Captain Francis Newcombe evenly.
"Heh?" The Frenchman stared incredulously. "But it must be that you
joke--a little joke of exquisite irony. Yes, of course; for what could
be better--or suit us better? We were about to lay low for a while
because it was becoming too hot for us on this side of the water--and,
presto, like a gift of the gods, there immediately awaits us fortune on
the other side!"
Captain Francis Newcombe suddenly thrust out a clenched hand toward the
other.
"_No!_" he said in a low voice.
"_Bon Dieu!_" gasped the Frenchman helplessly. "But I do not
understand."
"Then I'll try to make it plain," said Captain Francis Newcombe in
level tones. "There are limits to what even I will do, and it is well
over that limit here. To go there as a guest of--"
"Monsieur was a guest, I understand, of the Earl of Cloverley a few
days ago," interrupted the Frenchman quickly.
"Yes!" said Captain Francis Newcombe tersely. "And the guest before
that of many others. But I did not have a ward to consider upon whose
reputation I was to trade, and which I would wreck. Do you understand
that?"
"Damn!" said the Frenchman. "There is always a woman! Damn all women,
I say!"
"You may damn them as much as you please," said Captain Francis
Newcombe, a grim savagery in his voice; "but there'll be none of that
sort of thing here. And you keep your hands off! Do you also
understand that? There's going to be one decent thing in my life!" He
stretched out his clenched hand again. "Curse these bandages! I wish
I could see your face! But I tell you now that if any attempt is made
to get that money I'll crush you with as little compunction as I would
crush a snake. Is _that_ plain?"
"But, monsieur--monsieur!" protested the Frenchman. "That is enough!
Why should you say such things to me? I am distressed. And it is not
just. You asked me to read a letter, and I read it. That was not my
fault. And surely it was but natural, what I said. Has it not been
our business to do that sort of thing together? I did not know how you
felt about this. But now that I know it is at an end. I have
forgotten it, my friend. It is as though it had never been."
"All right, then!" said the ex-captain of territorials in a softer
tone. "As you say, that ends it."
"Shall I go on with the letter?" asked the Frenchman pleasantly.
"No," said Captain Francis Newcombe. "Give it to me. I've had enough
of it for now." He smiled suddenly, as the Frenchman placed the letter
in his hand. "I'm afraid I'm a bit off colour this morning, Paul.
Sorry! The trip down from Cloverley's has done me in a bit, and my
eyes hurt like hell. I'd give a hundred pounds for a few good hours of
sleep."
"Try, then," suggested the Frenchman. "I'll be where I can hear you if
you want anything. I won't go out until Runnells gets back."
"Good enough!" agreed Captain Francis Newcombe; and then abruptly, as
the Frenchman rose from his chair: "Speaking of Runnells, Paul--you
will _oblige_ me by saying nothing to him of the contents of this
letter."
"I will say nothing to any one, let alone Runnells," replied the
Frenchman quietly. "It is already forgotten. Call, if you want
anything."
"I will," said Captain Francis Newcombe.
The Frenchman's footsteps died away in an outer room.
Captain Francis Newcombe's fingers tightened around the letter he held
in his hand, crushed it, and carefully smoothed it out again. He lay
there motionless then, his face turned away from the door, his lips
thinned, his under jaw outthrust a little.
"Three years in the planting!" he muttered to himself. "It has ripened
well! Very well! Paul--bah! What does it matter, after all, that he
read the letter? I am not sure but that he has already outlived his
usefulness--and Runnells too!" He thrust the letter suddenly
underneath his pillow. "Damn the infernal pain!" he gritted between
his teeth. "If I could only sleep for a bit--sleep--sleep!"
And for a time he tossed restlessly from side to side, and then
presently he slept.
Runnells, in response to a demand from the bedroom, brought in the
luncheon tray.
"You've had a rare whack of sleep," he said, as he laid the tray down
on the table beside the bed.
"What time is it?" inquired Captain Francis Newcombe.
"Three o'clock," said Runnells. "Here, sit up a bit, and I'll bolster
the pillows in behind you."
"Where's Paul?" asked the ex-captain of territorials.
Runnells did not answer immediately. In arranging the pillows he had
found a letter. He looked at it coolly. It ought to be worth looking
at if Captain Francis Newcombe kept it under his pillow.
"Well?" snapped the ex-captain of territorials.
Runnells placed the letter on the table within easy reach beside the
tray, pulled the table a little closer, and sat down on the edge of the
bed.
"He went out after I got back," said Runnells. "Said he'd sleep here
to-night, that's all I know. This is a bit of stew."
Runnells, with one hand presented a forkful of meat to Captain Francis
Newcombe's lips, and with the other hand possessed himself of the
letter again.
Runnells read steadily now. He conveyed food to Captain Francis
Newcombe's mouth mechanically.
"Damn it!" spluttered the ex-captain of territorials suddenly. "Do you
take me for a boa constrictor? I can't bolt food as fast as that!"
Runnells' eyes were curiously, feverishly alight.
"Yesterday you said I went too slow," he mumbled.
"In a great many respects, Runnells," said Captain Francis Newcombe
tartly, "you are an irritating, tactless ass. But not to be too hard
on you, and especially in view of the last week, I have to admit you
possess one redeeming feature that I am bound to give you credit for."
"What's that?" Runnells was at the end of the letter now. He stared
at the bandaged face with eyes a little narrowed, and with lips that
twisted in a strange, speculative smile.
"A fidelity of the same uninitiative quality that a dog has," said
Captain Francis Newcombe, motioning for more to eat. "And in that
sphere you're a success. I hope you'll always stick to it."
Runnells made no answer. His eyes were on the letter again--re-reading
it.
The lunch proceeded in silence.
At its conclusion, Runnells stood up, slipped the letter behind the
pillow again, and gathered the various dishes together on the tray.
"America, eh?" confided Runnells to himself, as he carried the tray
from the room. "So _that's_ the bit of all right, is it? And Paul
don't know anything about it! And the captain don't know--I know!
Half a million dollars! Strike me pink!"
--VI--
THE WRITING ON THE WALL
It was a night of storm. The rain, wind driven, swept the decks in
gusty, stinging sheets; the big liner rolled and pitched, disgruntled,
in the heavy sea.
Within the smoking room at a table in the corner Captain Francis
Newcombe turned from a companion who sat opposite to him to face a
steward who had just arrived with a tray.
"How about this, steward?" he asked. "Is this weather going to delay
our getting in? I understand that if we don't pass quarantine early
enough they hold us up all night."
"So they do, sir," the steward answered. "But this isn't holding us up
any, a bit nasty though it is. We'll be docked at New York by two
o'clock to-morrow afternoon at the latest. Thank you, sir!" He
pocketed a generous tip as he departed.
The young man at the opposite side of the table, dark-eyed,
dark-haired, with fine, clean-cut features, a man of powerful physique,
whose great breadth of shoulder was encased in an immaculate dinner
jacket, lifted the glass the steward had just set before him.
"Here's how, captain!" he smiled.
"The same, Mr. Locke!" returned Captain Francis Newcombe cordially.
Howard Locke extracted a cigarette from his case, and lighted it.
"The end of as chummy a crossing as I've ever had," he said. "Thanks
to you. And I've been lucky all round. Cleaned up well in London, and
'll get a pat on the back for it from dad--and a holiday, which,
without throwing any bouquets at myself, I'll say I've earned. I think
I'll do a bit of coast cruising in that little old fifty-footer of mine
that I've filled your ear full of during the last few days. Wow! And
not least of all my luck was Joyce introducing me to you at lunch that
day in the club."
"It's very good of you to say so," said Captain Francis Newcombe.
"Good, nothing!" exclaimed the young American. "I mean it! You've
made the trip for me. And now how about your plans? I know you're
going on South somewhere, for you mentioned it the other day. But what
about New York? You'll be a little while there, and I feel pleasurably
responsible for the stranger in the strange land. The house is barred,
for the family is away for the summer; but there are the clubs, and I'd
like to put you up and show you around a bit."
Captain Francis Newcombe studied the young man's face for a moment--he
smiled disarmingly as he did so. Howard Locke was the son of a man of
great wealth, the head of a great financial house, and of a family
whose social status left nothing to be desired--and America was the
Land of Promise! But one could be _too_ eager!
"I'd like to," he said heartily; "but I fancy I've still quite a little
trip ahead of me, and I'm afraid I'm a bit overdue already. As you
say, I mentioned that I was going South. To be precise, I'm going down
Florida way--or do you call it up?--as the guest of a Mr. Marlin."
Howard Locke removed the cigarette from his lips.
"Marlin?" he repeated. "Not Jonathan P. Marlin, by any chance?"
Captain Francis Newcombe nodded.
"Whew!" The young American whistled softly under his breath.
Captain Francis Newcombe lifted his eyebrows inquiringly.
"You know him?" he asked.
"No," Locke answered. "Not personally. I know of him, of course.
Everybody does. And I don't want to be nosey and butt in, and you can
heave that glass at me by way of reply if you like, but how in the
world do you happen to know him?"
Captain Francis Newcombe smiled.
"I don't," he said. "My ward, who has been over here at school for the
past few years, has been a classmate of Miss Marlin, and she is
spending part of the summer with them."
"Oh, I see!" Howard Locke tapped the end of his cigarette on the edge
of an ash tray once or twice, and glanced in evident indecision at his
companion.
"Go on!" invited Captain Francis Newcombe. "What is it?"
Howard Locke laughed a little awkwardly.
"Well, I don't know," he said. "Nothing very much. And I'm afraid
it's not done, as you English put it, for me to say anything, since he
is your prospective host; still, as you say you are not personally
acquainted with him yourself, I think perhaps you ought to know just
the same. I haven't anything definite to go on, no authoritative
source of information, but it is rather generally understood that old
Marlin's gone a bit queer in the head."
"Really!" ejaculated Captain Francis Newcombe. "Good lord! I had no
idea of any such thing! And my ward's on this island of his in the
Florida Keys, and--"
"There's nothing whatever to be alarmed about," said the young American
hastily. "It's nothing like that. He's as harmless as you are, or as
I am. It's only on one subject--money. I suppose he was one of the
wealthiest men in America at the close of the war, and since then he's
been wiped out."
"Wiped out?" Captain Francis echoed incredulously.
"Comparatively, of course," said Howard Locke. "I don't know how much
he has got left--nobody does. It's been the talk of the financial
district. There isn't a share of stock anywhere to be found standing
in his name. He sold everything; and how much was used to cover
losses, and how much remained to himself no one knows. You see, the
last few years, to put it mildly, have been hell in a financial and
business way. The foreign exchange situation has been a big factor in
helping to play the devil with all sorts of holdings. Values have
depreciated; the market has gone smash. Industries that were big
dividend payers haven't been able to meet their overhead. You may not
believe it, but hundreds and hundreds have taken their money out of the
banks, and, insisting on being paid in American gold certificates, when
they couldn't get the actual gold itself, have hoarded it in the safe
deposit vaults. God knows why! Just instances the general panicky
conditions everywhere, I suppose. The aftermath of the war! History
repeating itself, so the writers on economics tell us. Small
consolation! However! Marlin met with crash after crash. He lost
millions. He's not a young man, you know, and it evidently got him
finally in the shape of a monomania. Finance! You understand? He was
on a dozen big directorates and his trouble began to show itself in the
shape of an obsession that everything should be turned into cash,
buildings, plants, everything--into American cash. Naturally he was
quietly and unostentatiously dropped. Poor devil! Certainly, his
losses were terrific. I don't know whether he's got anything left or
not."
"By Jove!" said Captain Francis Newcombe gravely. "I'm glad you told
me. Pretty rough that, I call it."
"Yes," said Locke. "It is! Damned rough! I think everybody was sorry
for him. And so he's down there at this place of his now on an island
in the Florida Keys, eh?"
"Yes," said Captain Francis Newcombe.
The young American selected another cigarette from his case, rolled it
slowly between his fingers--and leaned suddenly across the table.
"Look here!" he said. "I've an idea. I'm going cruising
somewhere--why not there? The Florida coast hits me down to the
ground. How would you like to make the trip with me?"
Captain Francis Newcombe leaned back in his chair, and laughed a little.
"I'm afraid not," he said. "I--"
"Oh, come on, be a sport!" urged Howard Locke enthusiastically. "The
more I think of it, the better I like it. I'll have good company on a
cruise, and you'll enjoy it. And it's quite all right so far as my
showing up there is concerned. It isn't as though I were foisting
myself on their hospitality. The little old boat's my home; and, for
that matter, I can drop you and sail solemnly away. You'll have the
time of your life. What's the objection?"
"Time," said Captain Francis Newcombe. "It would take a long while,
wouldn't it?"
"Well," said Howard Locke, "I wouldn't guarantee to get you there as
fast as a train would, but what difference does a few days make? It
isn't as though it were a business engagement you had to keep."
"No; that's so," acknowledged Captain Francis Newcombe. "And frankly I
must admit it appeals to me; but"--he looked at his watch--"I don't
know whether I can manage it or not. Anyway, I promise to sleep on it.
It's after twelve, and time to turn in. What do you say?"
"That suits me," said Howard Locke, "so long as you promise to say
'yes' in the morning."
"We'll see," said Captain Francis Newcombe.
The two men rose from their chairs, and, crossing the room where
several games of bridge were in progress, stepped out on the deck. And
here, their respective cabins lying in different directions, they bade
each other good-night.
But now Captain Francis Newcombe, despite the pitching of the ship and
the general unpleasantness of the night, appeared to be in no hurry.
He walked slowly. It was the lee side, and under the covered deck he
was protected from the rain. He looked behind him. The young
American, evidently in no mind for anything but the snugger shelter of
his cabin, had disappeared. The deck was deserted.
The ex-captain of territorials stepped to the rail, and stared out into
the murk, through which there showed, like pencilled streaks on a black
background, the white, irregular shapes of the cresting waves. The
howl of the wind, the boom and crash of the seas made thunderous
tumult, conflict, turmoil. And he laughed. And spume, flying, struck
his face. And he laughed again because a sort of fierce exaltation was
upon him, and he found something akin in these wild, untramelled voices
of the elements--a challenge, far-flung and savage, and contemptuous of
all who would say them nay.
And then his eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and his fingers played a soft
tattoo upon the dripping rail.
"I wonder!" said Captain Francis Newcombe to himself. "I wonder if it
suits my book?"
His mind began to moil over the problem in a cold, unprejudiced,
judicial way. Was the balance for or against the acceptance of the
young American's offer? To arrive at Marlin's place in the company of
a man of the standing of Howard Locke was an endorsation that spoke for
itself. But he already had an unqualified endorsation. Polly supplied
it. Still, he could not have too much of that sort of thing. Would,
then, the man be in the way, a hindrance, a complication? He could not
answer that off-hand, but it did not seem to be a vital point. What he
proposed to do on Manwa Island in a general way he knew well enough;
but just how he proposed to do it, and just how long he proposed to
stay there, a week, or a month, or longer, only local conditions as he
found them must decide.
He shrugged his shoulders suddenly. Neither Howard Locke nor any other
man would make of himself a hindrance--hindrances were removed. But
there was another point, an outstanding point. After Manwa Island
there was--America. True, he had brought Runnells with him, while he
had said good-bye to Paul Cremarre, who had departed for Paris, and
thereafter for such destination as his fancy prompted, for the period,
mutually agreed upon, of six months--but he, Captain Francis Newcombe,
was not prepared to say when, or where, if ever, he intended to
utilise, in the same manner as before, the services of either Runnells
or the Frenchman again. Certainly not in America, if a lone hand
promised better there! He proposed to play a lone hand at this Manwa
Island. It might well be that he would continue to do so thereafter.
And in America an intimacy with Howard Locke, such as this projected
cruise offered, would help amazingly to spread and germinate the seed
already sown by Polly Wickes. Polly Wickes was his private property!
Captain Francis Newcombe smiled confidentially at the angry waters.
"Yes," he said, "I think it is quite possible that he may be able to
_persuade_ me."
He turned abruptly away from the rail, making for his cabin, which was
on the deck above and on the opposite side of the ship. And presently,
halting in the lighted alleyway before his door, he turned the key in
the lock and entered.
And then, just across the threshold, he stood for the fraction of a
second like a man dazed--and the door, torn from his hand by a fierce
gust of wind, slammed with a bang behind him. The cabin was on the
windward side, the window was open, and outside the window, indistinct,
shadowy, as though almost it might be an hallucination of the mind, a
man's form suddenly loomed up. There was a flash, the roar of a
revolver shot, muffled, almost drowned out in the thunder of the
storm--and Captain Francis Newcombe lay flat upon the cabin floor.
The next instant he flung himself over beside the settee, and protected
here from another shot, raised his head. The form had vanished from
the window.
A cold fury seized upon the man. From his pocket he drew his own
revolver, and covering the window as he backed swiftly for the door,
wrenched the door open and made for the first egress to the deck. Too
late, of course! The deck was deserted. He stood there, grim-faced,
tight-lipped, straining his eyes up and down the length of the deck
through the darkness, the rain beating into his face.
And then he began to run again--like a dog seeking scent. There were a
dozen places up here where a man might hide--the juts of the
superstructure, the great, grotesque, looming ventilators, the openings
through to the other side of the deck. But he found nothing, no
one--there was only the deserted deck, the drenching rain. And the
howl of the wind metamorphosed itself into ironical shrieks.
Captain Francis Newcombe returned along the deck, and halted outside
his cabin window. He examined it critically. It had been pried open
from the outside--the marks were distinctly indented on the sill, as
though a jimmy, or iron bar of some kind, had been used.
He stared at it, his jaws clamped. It was unpleasant. Some one on the
ship had deliberately, premeditatively, attempted to murder him. There
was something of hideous malignancy in it. To pry the window open, and
wait there patiently in the storm for the sole purpose of ending a
man's life! It hadn't succeeded because intuition, or, perhaps,
better, an exaggerated instinct of self-preservation born of the years
in which he had flaunted defiance of every law in the face of his
fellow men, had prompted him, though taken unawares, to act even
quicker than his assailant who lay in wait, and to fling himself
instantly to the floor of the cabin.
Who was it? Why was it? Who, on board the ship, had any incentive,
any reason, any cause to murder him? Save for Locke, the young
American, he knew no one on board, barring Runnells, of course, except
in the ordinary, casual way of shipboard acquaintanceship struck up
since the ship had left Liverpool. It could not be any one of
these--at least, not logically. And of them all, it certainly could
not be Locke. The ship's company? Absurd! Runnells? Still more
absurd! And so he had eliminated _everybody_, and yet _somebody_ had
done it!
He began to work with the window. Reaching inside he drew the curtains
carefully together, and then lowered the window itself. When he
re-entered his room, even providing he were still being watched, he
would not be exposed in the same way as a target again!
He stood there now in the rain, his face hard, with savage, drooping
lines at the corners of his mouth. Was he being watched now? Was
there a cat-and-mouse game in play? Well, two could play at that! He,
too, could prowl about the ship. His bed held little of invitation for
him!
He went to Runnells' room. The man was in bed asleep. That definitely
disposed of Runnells!
He returned and made another circuit of the upper deck; and then,
forward, by one of the open companionways, he descended to the deck
below. His mind was in a strange state of turmoil. It was not
physical fear. It was as though a host of haunting shapes were being
marshalled against him, were rising up out of the past to disturb him,
jeering at him, mocking him, plaguing him with sinister possibilities.
The past was peopled with shapes, shapes that had lived in the world of
Shadow Varne; shapes which might well be accused of this attempt to do
away with him, could they but take tangible form, could their presence
but be reconciled with the here and now, with this ship, with these
damp, slippery decks, with the drive and sting of the rain, with the
scream and howl of the wind, with the plunge and roll of the great
liner, the buffeting of the waves--if they could but be reconciled with
_material_ things. He clenched his hands. He was not as a man who
could search his memory in vain for one who owed him such a debt as
this; it was, rather, that his memory became crowded and confused with
the _number_ that came thronging in upon it, each vying with the others
to shriek the loudest its boasted claim to the attempted retribution
to-night.
He set his teeth. Where had he failed? When had he left ajar behind
him the door of the past that allowed any one of these ghostly shapes
to slip through upon his heels? Ghostly? There was little of the
ghostly here! He _must_ have been recognised by some one on board the
ship. It seemed incredible, impossible--but it was equally
incontrovertible. Who? And what did it portend? To-night he had won
the first hand, but--
_Locke_! He was standing beside the smoking room window. Locke was in
there, his back turned, standing beside one of the bridge tables,
watching a game. It was a little strange! He had parted with Locke
out here on the deck--and Locke was going to his cabin to turn in.
For an instant Captain Francis Newcombe held there, his brows knitted
in a perplexed frown. Howard Locke! It was preposterous; it would not
hold water; it was childish--unless the young American were some one
other than he pretended to be, and there wasn't a chance in a thousand
of that! His mind worked swiftly now. Locke had been introduced to
him at lunch in the club by a fellow member a few days before they had
sailed. That certainly vouched for the man sufficiently, didn't it?
Locke had volunteered the information that he had booked passage on
this ship, and they had not met again until here on shipboard. If
Locke was what he passed for, if he was of one of the best families of
America, the son of a millionaire, a clever, hard-working and ambitious
young business man, it was untenable to assume for an instant that he
was a potential murderer. It was even laughable. There wasn't even
that one chance in a thousand that he could be any other than he
seemed, not a chance in a million, and yet--
"Chance," said Captain Francis Newcombe, "is the playground of fools.
We will see!"
He turned and ran swiftly along the deck. A minute later he was
standing before one of the two doors of the young American's suite. A
little metal instrument was in his hand, but it went instantly back
into his pocket--the door was not locked. He stepped inside and closed
the door behind him. Locke had one of the best and most expensive
reservations on the ship--a suite of two rooms and a private bath, but
there was a separate door from each of these rooms to the passageway
without, since, naturally, they were not always booked en suite. And
the room he stood in now was the one Locke used for his sitting room,
and always as the entrance to the suite itself.
Captain Francis Newcombe was quick in every movement now. He ran
through to the other room--the bedroom--closing the connecting door
behind him. He switched on the light, and turned at once to the door
that gave here on the passageway. The key was in the lock, and the
door was locked. He unlocked it. The next instant he had a
portmanteau open and was delving into its contents. It contained
nothing but clothing--shirts, collars, ties, underwear, and the like.
He opened another, and still another with the same result. Papers! It
was the man's papers that interested him.
He snarled a little savagely to himself. There was nothing for it then
but the steamer trunk under the couch--and Locke might be back at any
moment. He dragged out the trunk--and snarled again savagely. It was
locked. He began to work with it now, swiftly, deftly, with the little
steel picklock. It yielded finally, and he flung back the lid. Yes,
this was what he wanted! On the top lay a leather despatch case. But
this also was locked. Again Captain Francis Newcombe set to work--and
presently was glancing through a mass of papers and documents that the
despatch case had contained: letters from the father's firm to the son,
signed by Locke senior; a letter of credit in substantial amount; an
underwriting agreement with a London house for the floating of a huge
issue of bonds, signed and sealed, the tangible evidence of young
Locke's successful trip, of which he had spoken. Incontrovertible
evidence that Howard Locke was no other than he appeared to be, and--
Captain Francis Newcombe sprang for the electric-light switch, and
turned off the light. There was Locke now! The pound of the ship, the
noise of the storm, had of course deadened any sound in the passageway,
but he could hear the other at the sitting room door. There was no
time to replace the despatch case and push the trunk back under the
couch, let alone attempt to lock either one. The man was coming
now--across the other room. Captain Francis Newcombe laid the despatch
case silently down on the floor, opened the door as silently, stepped
out into the passageway and ran noiselessly along it.
He reached the door of his own cabin. His excursion to Locke's cabin
and the evidence of intrusion he had been forced to leave behind him
had put an end to any more "prowling" on his part to-night. Locke
would probably kick up a fuss. There would be a very strict search for
"prowlers!" He snapped his jaws together viciously. That did not at
all please him. He would very much prefer that the would-be assassin
should have another opportunity of showing his hand, that the man would
be inspired to make a _second_ attempt. He, Captain Francis Newcombe,
would be a little better prepared this time!
He pushed open the door of his cabin cautiously--and for an instant
stood motionless, a little back from the threshold, and at one side.
There was always the possibility, remote though it might be, that while
he had been out searching for the other, the man had slipped inside
and, waiting, had made of the cabin a death trap which he, Captain
Francis Newcombe, was now invited to enter. It was not likely. It
would require a little more nerve than the firing of a shot through the
window, and then running away. But, for all that, having failed the
first time, the other might be moved to take what might possibly be
considered more certain measures on the next attempt. And in that
case--No; the cabin was empty! The light from the passageway,
filtering in through the open door, showed that quite plainly.
Captain Francis Newcombe stepped inside, and, before closing the door,
looked curiously over the woodwork near the door and on a line with the
window. Yes, there it was! The writing on the wall! The bullet had
splintered a piece of the wall panelling, and had embedded itself in
the wall a little to the right of the door casing.
He closed and locked the door now, shutting out the light, and, with
his revolver in his hand, sat down in the darkness, out of direct range
himself, but where he could command the window. It was a bit futile.
He was conscious of that. But there was always the possibility of the
man's return, and there was no other possibility that promised any
better--or, indeed, promised anything at all.
His mind began to weigh, and sift, and grope as through a maze,
battling with the problem again. Not Locke! He was rather definitely
prepared to set Locke apart from everybody else on board the ship, and
say that it was not Locke. Who, then? Who had any--
He straightened up, suddenly even more alert. There was some one out
in the passageway now--some one outside his door. There came a low,
quick rap.
"Who's there?" demanded Captain Francis Newcombe sharply.
Locke's voice answered:
"It's Locke. May I come in?"
Captain Francis Newcombe crossed to the door, unlocked it, and flung it
open.
"Hello!" ejaculated the young American, as the light from the
passageway fell upon the other. "Not in bed, and in the dark! What's
the idea? Why no light?"
"Because I fancy it's safer--in the dark," said Captain Francis
Newcombe. "Come in."
"Safer!" Howard Locke stepped into the cabin, and closed the door
behind him. "How safer? Say, look here! Some one's been turning my
stateroom inside out--been going through my things."
"You're lucky!" said Captain Francis Newcombe tersely.
"Lucky!" echoed the young American quickly. "What do you mean?"
"That it wasn't anything worse," said Captain Francis Newcombe coolly.
"Some one's been trying to put a bullet through me--only it went into
the wall over there instead. Here, take a look!" He switched on the
light. "See it--there by the door casing!"
"Good God!" exclaimed Locke. "Yes; I see it! When was this?"
"Shortly after I left you. As I opened the door here and stepped into
the cabin, I was fired at through the window. And the window had been
opened from the outside--there are marks on it--and whoever it was, was
waiting for me."
"That's damned queer," said Howard Locke. "When I left you I went to
my rooms, and everything was all right. I went back to the smoking
room because I had left my cigarette case there. I stayed a few
minutes watching several hands of bridge, and when I went back to my
rooms again I found my steamer trunk open and a case of papers on the
floor."
"Anything missing?" asked Captain Francis Newcombe.
"No; not so far as I know," Locke answered. "What do you think had
better be done?"
"I think you had better switch that light off, and stand away from the
line of the window."
The young American shook his head.
"No," he said. "It's hardly likely that the same game would be tried
twice in the same night. Say, what do you make of it? It seems mighty
queer that you and I should have been picked out for some swine's
attentions! What should be done?"
"What _have_ you done?"
"Nothing, so far," Locke replied. "I came here at once to tell you
about it, and ask your advice. I suppose the commander ought to be
told."
Captain Francis Newcombe sat down on the edge of his bunk.
"I can't see the good of it," he said slowly. "We're landing
to-morrow. It would mean the shore police aboard, and no end of a
fuss; and an almost certain delay, nobody allowed off the ship, and all
that, you know. I can't see how it would get us anywhere. You haven't
lost anything; and I--well, I'm still alive."
"That's true," said Locke. He was staring at the bullet hole in the
wall. "And worst of all there'd be the reporters. Three-inch
headlines! I'm not for _that_! I agree with you. We'll say nothing."
Captain Francis Newcombe inspected Locke's back.
"How much of a crew do you carry on this fifty-footer of yours?" he
inquired softly.
"Why not necessarily any one but the two of us and your man, if you'll
come along." Howard Locke turned around suddenly to face the other.
"Why?"
"Well," said Captain Francis Newcombe quietly, "under those conditions,
as the two victims of to-night, we'd form a sort of mutual protective
society--and perhaps, if the offer is still open, it would be the
safest way for me to reach my destination. There wouldn't be any
windows for any one to fire through."
Howard Locke lighted a cigarette.
"That's a go!" he said. "I'm very keen to make the trip with you. And
if all this has decided it, I'm glad it's happened. That's fine! And
now--what are you going to do for the rest of the night?"
"Why, I'm going to bed," said Captain Francis Newcombe casually; "and
at the risk of appearing inhospitable, I should advise you to do
likewise."
"Right!" agreed Locke. "There's nothing else to do." He stepped
toward the door, but paused, staring at the bullet mark in the wall
again.
"That bullet hole seems to fascinate you," smiled Captain Francis
Newcombe.
"Yes," said Locke, as he opened the door. "I was thinking what a
rotten thing it was to be fired at cold-bloodedly in the dark.
Good-night!"
The door closed.
Captain Francis Newcombe did not go to bed. With the light out again,
he sat there on the bunk.
Long minutes passed; they drifted into hours.
The man's figure became crouched, became a shape that lost human
semblance, that was like unto some creature huddled in its lair; and
the face was no longer human, for upon it was stamped the passions of
hell; and the head became cocked curiously sideways in a strained
attitude of attention, as though listening, listening, listening,
always listening.
And there came a time when he spoke aloud, and called out hoarsely:
"Who's that? Who's whispering there? Who's calling Shadow Varne ...
Shadow Varne ... Shadow Varne...."
And in answer the ship's bell struck the hour of dawn.