BOOK III: THE PENALTY

--I--

THE WHITE SHIRT SLEEVE

An hour to daybreak! Passion, unchecked and unrestrained, was stamped

on Captain Francis Newcombe's face as he dressed now with savage,

ferocious haste. He swore and snarled, making low venomous sounds in

the fury that possessed him. There was no longer room for the fear

that last night, here in his rooms, had gnawed at his soul itself--the

fear of the _unknown_; there was no longer room for fear in any sense,

whether born of the intangible, or whether it knew its source in man,

or God, or devil--there was only _murder_, that alone, in his heart.

The blows were coming nearer and nearer home. Too near! And his

efforts to strike one in return had resulted in little to boast about

so far! Disaster, ruin, that dangling gibbet chain, were inevitable if

this went on. He had been _too_ cautious perhaps! Well, that was

ended now! He swore again--bitter, sacrilegious in his rage. The luck

had been running against him. Even an old fool had tricked him--even a

maniac, a cracked-brained idiot, and one almost in his dotage besides,

had tricked him! Last night after he had read that infernal message at

the hut he had made no effort to uncover the madman's horde--he had

lain there waiting. Hours of waiting, patient waiting--listening--his

revolver in his hand--the one chance that the unknown might not have

gone away, might have lingered, hidden in the foliage, to gloat--_and

die_. He had waited in vain. To-night he had gone back to the hut

only to find after hours of search that the old madman's money,

wherever else it might be, was not there. And then he had returned

here--and again the unknown had struck swiftly, viciously, cunningly.

When, where, how would the next blow fall?--unless he could now strike

the quicker, and strike surely! How much farther was it to the abyss

of exposure? To-night he had stood perilously close to its edge,

hadn't he? If he had not been able to pull the wool over Polly's eyes

with the specious explanation that it was old Marlin who had

telephoned, he would--

He stood suddenly motionless, tense, with his coat half on, his working

lips drawn for the moment tight together. Had it been, after all,

merely a _specious_ explanation? Was he so sure that it _wasn't_ old

Marlin, after all, who had telephoned? The old madman was cunning;

and, granting that fact as a premise, his act last night in pretending

to go to his money in the hut must have been prompted by suspicion of

some sort. The money had never been in that hut. The bit of flooring

that was loose was flush with the ground beneath, and the ground had

never been disturbed--and this was true of everywhere else in the hut.

The old maniac, then, was suspicious that he was being followed by

somebody, and had set a false trail. Of whom would he be suspicious?

The question answered itself. The newcomers on the island, of course.

And, being suspicious of them, he would want to drive them away. To

frighten Polly into the belief that her mother was dead might very

easily appeal to an insane brain, and even to one that wasn't, as a

very clever and effective means of accomplishing this end

surreptitiously. Polly might very logically be expected in her grief

to wish to bring her visit here to an end, even if she did not, indeed,

insist on returning to England at once--and the result would be that

all who had come here, Locke, Runnells and himself, would naturally

leave with her. Why not? The madman was certainly cunning enough; he

could have telephoned--and the motive was there.

No! With an angry, self-contemptuous snarl, Captain Francis Newcombe

jerked on his coat. Was he trying to qualify for an insane asylum

himself? The old maniac _could_ have done this to-night, otherwise the

explanation made to Polly would have been merely an absurdity; but old

Marlin had not been on the liner and could not have fired that shot

through the cabin window--nor could the old man have known, as

instanced by that voice in the woods, that he, Newcombe, was Shadow

Varne--or known anything of the murder of Sir Harris Greaves. The man

who had telephoned to-night--making the fourth mysterious blow that had

been struck--was the man who had showed his hand on those three former

occasions. This was so blatantly obvious that to have allowed his

brain to shoot off at a tangent so idiotic but increased his anger now.

He sneered at himself as he finished dressing. There was only one man

on the island who could be made to fit into each and every one of the

four niches. Runnells! Runnells _had_ been on board ship, even though

at the time Runnells had apparently been asleep; Runnells was in a

position to know, and to know what now appeared to be certainly _too

much_, about Shadow Varne; and Runnells, though the man could _prove_

nothing, was, more than any one else, in a position to entertain

suspicions in reference to the murder of the baronet who meddled so

gratuitously with the affairs of others.

Captain Francis Newcombe slipped a flashlight and a revolver into his

pocket, and made for the door of his room. Quite so! All this was

nothing new--no new angle--he had mulled this over a hundred times

before. But up to now he had held his hand--and for two very good

reasons. In the first place, he had not been able to bring himself to

believe that it was Runnells, for he could not see where Runnells would

profit by any such game; and, secondly, as he had already argued with

himself, should it not prove to be Runnells, he almost inevitably

disclosed his own hand and his real purpose in coming here to Manwa

Island, and it would in that case make a partner of Runnells--and

partners shared in the profits! But the time for hesitation on any

such score as that was gone now; not only because the ice he was

treading on, already thin, had nearly broken through to-night, and the

promise of imminent and final disaster was forcing his hand, but

because, in respect of Runnells, the absence of apparent

motive--Runnells would be made to explain that!--counted for nothing

now in view of the fact that he, Newcombe, had more to go on to-night

than he had had before. Not only was Runnells one who fitted into the

role of the "unknown" on each of the four occasions, but Runnells, as

though to clear the matter of all doubt, knew what surely no one else

on the island could possibly know--that Mrs. Wickes _actually_ was

dead. He, Newcombe, had himself to blame for that, and it appeared now

that he had trusted Runnells too far; but somebody had had to bury the

old hag. Not Captain Francis Newcombe! To have left her in the status

of a pauper for the authorities, or the Mission Boards, or any of that

ilk to have taken care of, and in view of the fact that it must have

been known amongst her neighbours that she had for a long time received

money from somewhere, talk, comment, investigation, official this and

official that would have been invited. It might have amounted to

nothing--but if a rock that is held in one's hand is not thrown into

the calm waters of a pool the placid surface is not disturbed! He had

delegated Runnells to interview the undertaker and arrange for the

quiet and unostentatious disposal of Mrs. Wickes' mortal remains.

Runnells, for the time being, did very well as a nephew of the

deceased, who, though in neither close nor loving touch with his

somewhat questionable relation, at least recognised the family tie to

the extent of paying for her very modest and unpretentious obsequies.

Captain Francis Newcombe crept quietly along the hall now. Runnells'

room, thanks to the hospitable thoughtfulness of Miss Marlin, in order

that the "man" might be nearer at hand and therefore the better able to

serve his "master," was not in the servants' quarters, but was at the

extreme end of the hall here just at the head of the stairs. Captain

Francis Newcombe's hand felt along the wall to guide him in the

darkness. He had no desire to stumble over anything and arouse

anybody; Locke, or Dora Marlin, for instance--and he had not forgotten

that Polly was probably lying wide awake. The only one to be aroused

was Runnells--and that very quietly. Runnells was a professional

criminal, not a particularly clever one, but possessed, where a

question of self-preservation was concerned, of a certain low cunning

born of his hazardous career, a cunning that was not to be ignored.

Cornered here in his room, for instance, Runnells, though quite well

aware that he, Captain Francis Newcombe, would have no more hesitation

about putting an end to him than an end to an obnoxious fly, would be

equally well aware that here in the house he was possessed of a defence

that rendered him invulnerable because no threat could be put into

execution in silence, and that a cry, a shout, and, if necessary, to

those who came to his succour, a confession of his own past misdeeds in

order to prove his alliance with, and implicate his "master" in

criminal intrigue, would protect him--for the moment--utterly.

But he, Captain Francis Newcombe, had no intention of making any such

unpardonable misplay as that! Runnells would never look down the

barrel of a revolver with a confidence born of the fact that the

trigger dared not be pulled; Runnells would never feel a grip upon his

throat and still be able to defy the clutching fingers because he knew

they feared the cry, the gasp, the _noise_ of strangulation. It would

not be in Runnells' room that the man would lay bare his soul through

fear to-night! Runnells would be played as a fish is played!

Captain Francis Newcombe was halfway along the hall now. His mind,

despite the fury that from smouldering rage had broken into flaming

heat, was logical, measured, precise. That telephone message could

have come from nowhere else but from the boathouse. That was

self-evident. If Runnells, then, was at the bottom of this, the

question now was whether Runnells had got back to his room yet or not?

And, if he were back, how long he had been back?--the man must be

allowed to undress and get into bed. To discover Runnells fully

dressed at this hour was to force the issue then and there in Runnells'

room; for Runnells, caught like that, while he might be voluble with

explanations, would of necessity at the same time be thrown instantly

upon his guard, and would not be fool enough to be enticed into any

trap, no matter how apparently genuine the pretence of accepting his

explanations might be made to appear.

Captain Francis Newcombe was at the door now listening. Runnells

_would_ have had time by now to have got to bed; certainly there was no

sound from within, and-- He drew back from the door suddenly, but as

silently as a shadow. There was no sound from within, but some one was

creeping, though with every attempt at silence, up the staircase.

Captain Francis Newcombe retreated still a little farther back along

the hall, and, with body hugged now close against the wall, waited in

the darkness. He could see nothing--not even across the hall; and,

therefore, he was quite secure from being observed himself, but his

hand, in his pocket now, was closed over the butt of his revolver.

The sounds were very faint, but they were equally unmistakable--now the

muffled, protesting creak of a stair tread; now that sound, like no

other sound so much as the padded footfall of an animal, as weight was

cautiously placed on the carpeted stairs. The footsteps came nearer

and nearer to the upper landing, slow, laborious in their caution and

stealth. And then another sound--equally faint and equally

unmistakable--the opening and closing of the door at the head of the

stairs.

Captain Francis Newcombe relaxed. His lips twisted into a smile of

malignant satisfaction.

Runnells!

So it _was_ Runnells who had indulged in that little telephone

conversation; Runnells, the pitiful, foolhardy moth--and the flame!

Runnells, instead of being already in bed, was just getting back. So

much the better--it would tax Runnells' ingenuity a little beyond its

limitations to explain this unseemly hour! It made it perhaps just a

little easier to handle and _break_ the man.

Captain Francis Newcombe moved silently back again to the door of

Runnells' room, and again listened at the panels. The sound of

movement from within was distinctly audible. Runnells was preparing to

go to bed.

The minutes passed--five--ten of them. It was quiet inside the room

now. And then Captain Francis Newcombe knocked softly with his

knuckles on the door--two raps in quick succession, then a single one

followed by two more.

There was a sound almost on the instant as of the sudden creaking of

the bed, and then the hurry of feet across the floor to the door. Then

silence again. Captain Francis Newcombe smiled thinly to himself.

Runnells was caution itself. He repeated the knocks precisely as

before.

The door opened. Runnells showed as a white, vague figure in his night

clothes.

"What's up?" whispered Runnells anxiously.

"I'm afraid we've been spotted," said Captain Francis Newcombe tersely.

"Spotted!" Runnells echoed the word with a gulp. "Who by?"

"Some swine from the Yard, I suppose," replied Captain Francis Newcombe

as tersely as before. "Do you remember Detective-Sergeant Mullins?"

"Him?" gasped Runnells. "My Gawd, he ain't followed us here, has he?

Strike me pink! My Gawd! I said all along it was damned queer him

showing up at the rooms that night. Are you sure?"

"Not yet--and I never will be if you stand there gawking," said Captain

Francis Newcombe sharply. "Go and get your clothes on--and hurry up

about it! It'll soon be daylight. Every minute counts. Meet me down

on the verandah."

He did not wait for Runnells' reply. It was not necessary. Runnells

had swallowed bait, hook and line. Captain Francis Newcombe indulged

in a low, savage chuckle, as, descending the stairs, he unlocked the

front door and stepped quietly out on the verandah. He had not lunged

in the dark, nor was it chance that had prompted him to endow his bogey

with the personality of Detective-Sergeant Mullins--he had not

forgotten Runnells' white face on the occasion when the man from

Scotland Yard had sent in his card!

And now as he waited on the verandah, the low, savage chuckle came

again. The boathouse would serve admirably--since Runnells seemed to

have a penchant for it! It was far enough away to obviate the

possibility of any sound carrying to the house; and, inside, it

possessed light. He wanted light when he handled Runnells! Quite

apart from the fact that darkness in itself afforded too many chances

for a lucky escape, he could not _read_ Runnells in the darkness.

Also, affording him a malicious delight, there was exquisite irony in

the thought that the setting for what was to come should be the one

that Runnells had himself chosen to-night--for quite another purpose

than that it should be the scene of his own undoing!

The front door opened and Runnells emerged.

"What's the game?" Runnells asked hoarsely. "D'ye know where he is?"

It was quite unnecessary to be anything but frank with Runnells as to

their destination. Runnells, safe in the belief that _he_ had been

mistaken for one Detective-Sergeant Mullins and that his "master" was

wide of the mark and astray, would also enjoy the _irony_ to be found

in a trip to the boathouse. It would be a pity to deprive Runnells of

anything like that! Captain Francis Newcombe nodded curtly, as,

motioning the other to follow, he led the way across the lawn.

"Yes; I think so," he said. "I've reason to believe he's been using

the boathouse to hide and live in."

"Strike me pink!" mumbled Runnells. "That's what I always said to

myself after that night: I says, 'look out for that bird'--and I was

bloody well right."

"I fancy you were," agreed Captain Francis Newcombe coolly, "though I

didn't think so at the time. But hurry up! There's no time to lose if

we want to trap him."

They had entered the wooded path leading to the shore, and, curiously

enough, Runnells was now in front--and in the darkness, as it swung at

his side, Captain Francis Newcombe's hand held a revolver.

"How'd he get here?" Runnells jerked back over his shoulder. "How'd

you twig it? And when did he come?"

"About the same time we did, I imagine," replied Captain Francis

Newcombe shortly. "Don't talk so loud--or any more at all, for that

matter. The wind has died down a bit, and we might be heard. Make

straight for one of those little bridges at the boathouse--the one on

this side--the nearer one. Understand? And look out for yourself--the

man's no fool, I'll say that for him."

"Right!" said Runnells in a muffled voice, as they came out of the

woods and the boathouse loomed up, shadowy and indistinct, some fifty

yards away.

There was laughter in Captain Francis Newcombe's soul now, a mirth

parented out of savagery and vindictiveness, a laugh at the blind fool

treading so warily and cautiously and silently across the sandy beach

here in order that he should not be denied the shambles! The laugh

seemed to demand physical, audible expression. He choked it back. In

a moment or so more he could laugh to his heart's content. The

boathouse was only a few yards away now. He rubbed close against

Runnells' side, as though to preserve touch with the other in the

darkness. Runnells' revolver was in the right-hand coat pocket, and--

Both men had halted simultaneously. Close to the boathouse now and in

its lee, the sound of the breaking waves was somewhat deadened, but

from under the overhang of the verandah there had come another sound,

as though a vicious _slapping_ were being given the comparatively

smooth water under the boathouse, and then a sudden floundering and

splashing, and then the _slapping_ again.

Runnells' hand went to his side pocket--but as it came out again with

his revolver Captain Francis Newcombe's hand closed upon it like a

vise, and with a quick twist and wrench secured the weapon.

"What--what did you do that for?" Runnells stammered in a low, startled

way. "Didn't you hear that in under the boathouse? There's some one

there. Maybe it's _him_."

Captain Francis Newcombe laughed now--aloud.

"So you think there's some one in under there, do you, Runnells?" he

drawled.

"Yes," said Runnells, and drew away a little. "You heard it just the

same as I did, but--but I don't understand what you--"

"You will in a minute!" Captain Francis Newcombe's voice was still a

drawl. "But meanwhile we'll see whether you're right or not. You

don't mind going first, do you, Runnells?" His revolver muzzle was

suddenly pressed against the small of Runnells' back. "I've known you

to be a bit tricky at times. Go on!"

Something like a whimper came from Runnells. He stood irresolute.

"Go on! In under there! We'll see this 'some one' of yours first of

all!" Captain Francis Newcombe's voice snapped now. "Move!"

A push from the revolver muzzle sent Runnells forward.

"What--what are you doing this to me for?" the man burst out in a

shaken voice again.

Captain Francis Newcombe made no answer. He too had heard the sounds

in under here, but if Runnells were up to some more of his games it

would avail Runnells very little now. Runnells' body, if there were by

any chance some one ahead here in the darkness, made a most excellent

and effective shield. It was inky black in here, and now underfoot, as

they went forward, in place of the pure sand there were rocks and a

slightly muddy bottom.

His left hand deposited the surplus revolver in his pocket, and in

exchange drew out his flashlight. He thrust the flashlight out beyond

Runnells' side in front of them both, and switched it on.

A cry broke on the instant from Runnells' lips--a cry of terror.

"Look! Look!" Runnells cried. "Let me go! Let me get out of here!

This is a horrible, slimy, ghastly hole! Let me go--let me go!

It's--it's a dead man!"

Captain Francis Newcombe's jaws had clamped. Into the focus of the

round white ray had come the big concrete pier that supported the

building in the centre, slime-draped, green and oozy now with the tide

still low; and, nearer in again, a black ribbon of water, strangely

like silk in its rippling under the light, for the sea wall way out

beyond had lulled it here into the quiet almost of a pond, lapped at

the shore, lapped and lapped, as though striving with hideous patience

to creep yet another inch onward, and yet another, and always another,

that it might reach a huddled thing that lay still several yards away.

A huddled thing!

Captain Francis Newcombe pushed Runnells ruthlessly forward until they

both stood over it. And now the flashlight's ray played upon it--upon

a twisted, crumpled form, a dead thing, a man whose clothes in places

were in ribbons as though the very body had been mangled, a man in a

white shirt sleeve where the sleeve of the coat had been torn away at

the armpit, a man around whose neck and across whose face were long,

horribly regular lines of round, lurid marks, near purple now against

the bloodless skin.

And Runnells with a scream shrank back and covered his face with his

hands.

"My Gawd!" he screamed out in terror. "It's Paul!" he screamed. "It's

Paul Cremarre!"

--II--

THE BRONZE KEY

Paul Cremarre!

And the man was not a pleasant sight! The slime, the water and the

mud! The Stygian blackness that seemed to mock and jeer at the puny

ray of the flashlight! The _lap-lap-lap_ of the wavelets that echoed

back in hollow, ghostly whispers from the flooring of the boathouse

above! And Runnells, grovelling, drawing in his breath with loud

sucking sounds. Noises of sea and air--indefinable--all

discordant--like imps in jubilee! It was a ghouls' hole!

But Captain Francis Newcombe smiled--with a thin parting of the lips.

He knew a sudden elation, a stupendous uplift. He found joy in each of

those abominable marks on the face of the Thing that lay at the end of

his flashlight's ray. They were not pretty--but they were all too few!

"Got your wind up, has it, Runnells?" he sneered--and thereafter for a

moment, though he never let Runnells entirely out of the light's focus,

gave his fuller attention to Paul Cremarre.

The man was dead, wasn't he? It was a matter that could not be left in

doubt--even where doubt seemed to be dispelled at a glance. He bent

down over the other. An instant's examination satisfied him. The man

was dead. His eyes roved over the body, and held suddenly on one of

the man's hands. Rather peculiar, that! The hand was tightly

clenched. One did not ordinarily die with one hand clenched and the

other open! He forced the hand open. Something fell to the ground.

He picked it up. It was a large bronze key about three inches in

length. Cupping it in his hand so that Runnells might not

inadvertently see it, he stared at it speculatively for a moment, then

dropped it into his pocket.

This was interesting, decidedly interesting--and suggestive! His

flashlight became more inquisitive in respect of the immediate

surroundings. Those footprints, for instance, in the half mud and

sand, deep, irregular, which, leading up from the edge of the water

some four or five yards away, ended where Paul Cremarre now lay--and

another series of footprints, a little to the right, quite regular,

which, though they also started from the water's edge, lost themselves

in the direction of the beach in front of the boathouse.

Captain Francis Newcombe worked swiftly now. He searched through the

dead man's pockets, transferring the contents, without stopping to

examine them, to his own pockets--and then abruptly and without

ceremony swung upon Runnells.

"We'll finish this up in the boathouse!" he snapped.

Runnells' reply was inarticulate.

Captain Francis Newcombe, with his revolver again at the small of

Runnells' back, drove the man before him--out from under the verandah,

up one of the ramp-like bridges and into the little lounge room of the

boathouse. Here, he switched on the light--and with a sudden, savage

grip around Runnells' throat, flung the man sprawling into one of the

big easy chairs.

"Now, my man," he said, "we'll have our little settlement, since Paul

has already had his! I congratulate you--_both_! And perhaps you may

have a very early opportunity of letting him know that I did not

overlook him in my felicitations. Very neat--very clever of you two to

play the game like this! I must confess that I did not think of Paul

Cremarre in connection with what has been going on. I fancy that the

very fact of you being here--the three divided, as it were--must have

helped to act as a sort of mental blanket upon me in that respect. And

even you I was forced to eliminate until to-night because I could not

arrive at any logical reason that would explain your motive--for if I

left the island here you would leave too. The combination, however,

would be very effective! Paul Cremarre would be left behind with a

free hand, eh?" Captain Francis Newcombe's voice rasped suddenly.

"Now, then, you cur, what happened under the boathouse here to-night?

What killed Paul?"

Runnells' face was a pasty white. He shrank back into the farthest

recesses of the chair, and licked nervously at his lips. He tried

twice to speak--ineffectually. His eyes seemed fascinated, not by the

revolver that Captain Francis Newcombe had transferred to his left

hand, but by Captain Francis Newcombe's right hand that came creeping

now with menacing, half-curled fingers toward his throat.

"Answer me--and answer quick!" snarled Captain Francis Newcombe.

"I--I don't know." Runnells forced a shaken whisper. "So help me,

Gawd, I don't! I don't know who killed him."

"I didn't say _who_; I said _what_!" Captain Francis Newcombe's hand

crept still closer to Runnells' throat. "Don't try any of that kind of

game--you're not brainy enough! It wasn't anything _human_ that killed

Paul Cremarre."

"No," mumbled Runnells, "no; it wasn't anything human. Oh, my Gawd,

the _look_ of it! It--it made me sick. Those--those round red things

on his face--and the eyes--the eyes--I--I ain't afraid of a dead man,

but--but I was afraid in there."

"Runnells," said Captain Francis Newcombe evenly, "at bottom you are a

stinking coward, a spineless thing--you always were. But you've never

really known fear--_not yet_! I'm going to teach you what _fear_ is!"

"No!" Runnells screamed out, and pawed at the other's hand that was now

tight around his throat. "I'm telling the truth. I swear to Gawd I

am! I don't know what happened. I didn't know Paul was here. I never

saw him since we left London."

"Don't lie!" Captain Francis Newcombe coolly and viciously twisted at

the flesh in which his fingers were enmeshed. "I'm going to have the

whole story now--or else you'll follow Paul Cremarre. You've seen

enough in the last three years to know that I never make an idle

threat. It will be quite simple. You will disappear. I, myself, will

be the most solicitous of all about your disappearance. It would never

be attributed to me. Is it quite plain, Runnells? You deserve it,

anyway! Perhaps it's a waste of time to do anything but get rid of you

now before daylight. I'd rather _like_ to do it, Runnells. It's

rather bad policy to give a man a chance to stab you a second time in

the back."

The man was almost in a state of collapse. Captain Francis Newcombe

loosened his hold, and, standing back a little and toying with

caressing fingers at his revolver's mechanism, surveyed the other with

eyes that, in meditation now, were utterly callous.

"I--I know you'd do it." Runnells, gasping for his breath, blurted out

his words wildly. "I know it wouldn't do me any good to lie--but I

ain't lying. Can't you believe me? I wasn't in it at all. I never

knew Paul was on the island until just now."

"Go on!" encouraged Captain Francis Newcombe ironically. "So it wasn't

you who telephoned Polly from the boathouse here a little while ago?"

Runnells' eyes widened.

"Me? No!" he cried out vehemently. "I haven't been near here."

Captain Francis Newcombe frowned. He knew Runnells and Runnells'

calibre intimately and well. The man's surprise was genuine. Another

angle! It was possible, of course, that Paul Cremarre had been playing

a lone hand; but against that was Runnells' own actions to-night.

Well, as it stood now, it was a very simple matter to put Runnells'

sincerity, or insincerity, to the proof.

"No, of course not!" he observed caustically. "I didn't expect you to

admit it. Why don't you tell me you spent the evening playing

solitaire, then went to bed and slept like a child until I rapped on

your door?"

Runnells lifted miserable, hunted eyes to Captain Francis Newcombe's

face.

"Because I'm only telling you the truth," he said, with frantic

insistence in his voice. "And that wouldn't be the truth. I'll tell

you everything--everything. You can see for yourself it's Gawd's fact.

I wasn't asleep when you knocked. I had been out of my room, but I

hadn't been out of the house; and I hadn't been in bed more than ten

minutes when I heard you at the door."

"You rather surprise me, Runnells," said Captain Francis Newcombe

coolly. "Not at what you say, for I was standing in the hall when you

entered your room--but that for once you are guilty of an honest

statement. Go on! What were you doing around the house?"

Runnells gulped, nervously massaging his pinched throat.

"I got to go back to before we left London, if I'm going to make a

clean breast of it," he said, searching Captain Francis Newcombe's face

anxiously. "I--I knew then about the money out here. There was a

letter under your pillow the day you got back from Cloverley's, and

when I propped you up in bed for your lunch I--I took it, and read it

while I was feeding you your--" His words were blotted out in a sudden

cry of fear. He was staring into a revolver muzzle thrust close to his

face, and behind the revolver were a pair of eyes that burned like

living coals. "For Gawd's sake," he shrieked out, "captain--_don't_!"

Captain Francis Newcombe dropped the revolver to his side again.

"You are quite right, Runnells," he said whimsically. "It would be

inexcusable to stem any tide of veracity flowing from you. Well?"

"I _got_ to make you believe I'm telling the truth," choked Runnells,

"and--and I know now I have. I didn't say anything to Paul about it--I

was keeping it to myself. And Paul didn't say anything to me. I

didn't know he knew about it, and I don't know now how he found

out--but I suppose he must have somehow, for I suppose that's what

brought him here. As for me, what I read in that letter didn't make

any difference after all, because the minute I got here I knew what

everybody else knew--that the dippy old bird had got half a million

dollars hidden away somewhere." He hesitated a moment, drawing the

back of his hand several times to and fro across his lips. "Well,

that's what I was doing to-night, and that's what I was doing last

night. I was searching the house trying to find out where he'd hidden

the money. But I didn't find it."

"No," said Captain Francis Newcombe grimly; "I'm quite sure you didn't.

But if you had, Runnells--what then?"

"I--I'm not sure." Runnells licked at his lips again. "I know what

you mean. It--it would have depended on you. You told me before we

left London that on account of the girl being your ward we weren't to

do anything slippery in America, and if I'd made sure of that and was

sure you wouldn't come in on the job, then I'd have copped the swag and

got away with it if I could; but if you would have come in, then I'd

have told you where it was."

"Anything more?" inquired Captain Francis Newcombe laconically.

Runnells shook his head.

"I've told you straight the whole thing," he said numbly.

It was a moment before Captain Francis Newcombe spoke again.

"Even on your own say-so," he said deliberately at last, "you were

prepared to double-cross me. Once I let a man toss a coin to see

whether I shot him or not--for less than that. But you are not even

entitled to that much chance--except for the fact that perhaps after

to-night you'll be less likely to stick your filthy hands into my

affairs. But even that is not what is outweighing my inclination to

have done with you here and now. The fact is that, though I regret to

admit it, you are, for the moment at least, more valuable alive."

Runnells straightened up a little in his chair. He swept his hand over

a wet brow.

"I'll play fair after this," he said hoarsely. "I take my oath to

Gawd, I will!"

"Or turn at the first chance like the dog who has been whipped by his

master," observed Captain Francis Newcombe indifferently. "Very good,

Runnells! I never prolong discussions. The matter is ended--unless

you are unfortunate enough to cause the subject to be reopened at some

future date! It is near daylight--and before daylight Paul Cremarre,

what is left of him, must be disposed of. If the man is found here,

the victim of a violent death, it means an inquest, the influx of

authorities, the possible discovery of Cremarre's identity--and ours!"

"We could tie something heavy on him," said Runnells thickly, "and drop

him in the water."

"We could--but we won't," said Captain Francis Newcombe curtly. "One

never feels at ease with bodies disposed of in that fashion--they have

been known to come to the surface. It might be the easiest way, but

it's not the _safest_. I think you've heard me say before, Runnells,

that chance is the playground of fools. Besides, our close and

intimate friendship with Paul demands a little more reverent and

circumspect consideration at our hands--what? Paul shall have a decent

burial. We'll dig a hole for him back there among the trees." He

thrust his hand suddenly into his pocket, brought out his flashlight,

and tossed it into Runnells' lap. "Go up to the house and get a spade,

a couple of them if you can. There ought to be plenty somewhere in the

out-houses at the back. And hurry!"

"Yes--right!" Runnells stammered, as he rose to his feet and stood

hesitant as though trying to say something more.

"I said hurry--damn you!" snarled Captain Francis Newcombe.

"Yes--right!" said Runnells mechanically again--and stumbled, half

running, across the room and out of the door.

Captain Francis Newcombe flung himself into the chair Runnells had

vacated. His mind was on Paul Cremarre now. What was it that had

caused the man's death? As Runnells had said, it was a sickening

sight. Well, no matter! The mode or cause of death was an incident,

wasn't it? Paul Cremarre found here on the island, whether dead or

alive, was what mattered--it meant that the menace, that hellish

nightmare of the "unknown," that had been hanging over him, Shadow

Varne, was gone now--that the way was clear ahead--a fortune

here--America once more an "open sesame"--riches, luxury, all he had

builded for, his again to take at his leisure without fear now of any

interference from any source. And yet he seemed to hate the man the

more because he was dead. Cremarre had done what no other man had ever

done to Shadow Varne--those black hours--last night--the night before.

His hands clenched fiercely. He knew a sudden, unbridled rush of anger

directed against the agency, be it what it might, that had caused Paul

Cremarre's death--that had forever removed the man beyond his reach,

and had _robbed_ him of a right that alone was his to settle with the

man. He had owed the other a debt that he could never now repay--the

sort of debt that Shadow Varne, until now, had never failed to pay. It

was all clear enough now. Paul Cremarre, if not from the moment he had

read Polly's letter that morning in London, had finally at any rate

yielded to the temptation that the opportunity of securing so great a

sum of money had dangled before his eyes. Cremarre, like Runnells, had

very possibly, and perhaps not unwarrantably, been sceptical about his,

Captain Francis Newcombe's, statement that the money here was to be

held inviolable; but whether he had or not made very little difference

in the last analysis, for, either way, it would be obvious to Paul

Cremarre that he would get none of the money unless he got it through

his own secret endeavours, since, even if he, Captain Francis Newcombe,

were after it for himself, Cremarre would realise that he was not to

share in the spoils.

It was quite plain! It was Paul Cremarre who had fired that shot

through the cabin window in the storm on the liner that night in order

to possess for himself a free hand on the island here. The man, in

disguise of course, had sailed on the same ship--because he would not

have dared to have left London before he, Newcombe, left, for fear of

arousing suspicions, since he was known to be acquainted with the

contents of the letter; and he would not have dared risk a later vessel

for fear of arriving too late and only to find the money gone should

he, Newcombe, prove to be after it for himself. It was Paul Cremarre

here on the island who had on those three occasions, ending with

to-night, sought through the medium of fear, no, more than that,

through an appeal to the impulse for self-preservation, to drive him,

Newcombe, away--and leave Paul Cremarre in sole possession of the

field. And it was quite plain now, too, why the man had not, here on

the island, attempted murder again as he had done on the liner. It was

not that the chances of discovery were less on board the ship; but that

here a murder would cause an invasion of the island by police and

detectives which would automatically hamper Cremarre in his efforts to

find the money, if, indeed, it would not force him to leave the island

entirely in order to make his own escape.

Captain Francis Newcombe's hand was groping tentatively in his pocket

now. It was not at all unnatural that the thought of Paul Cremarre had

not entered his head. To begin with, he had trusted the hound; and,

again, he had sailed immediately on the _first_ ship after leaving the

man in London. But now! Yes, that was where the crux of the whole

thing lay--the time spent on that yachting trip of Locke's down the

coast. Paul Cremarre had probably been on the island for several days

before the _Talofa_ arrived, and--

His hand came out of his pocket. In its palm lay the bronze key. He

stared at it thoughtfully. No, Paul Cremarre had not succeeded in

getting the madman's money prior to to-night, for in that case old

Marlin would have discovered his loss and raised a wild fuss; and,

besides, if successful, Cremarre would have left the island without

loss of time. Nor had Cremarre been _quite_ successful to-night, for

the money was not on his person; but he had been--what? Captain

Francis Newcombe stared for another long minute at the bronze key, then

jumping suddenly up from the chair, he crossed over to the table and

began to divest his pockets of the articles he had taken from Paul

Cremarre. He tumbled them out on the table: A roll of bills; a

passport--made out under an assumed name--to one André Belisle; a few

papers such as railroad folders, a small map of the Florida Keys, some

descriptive matter pertaining thereto, and among these a little book.

Captain Francis Newcombe snatched up the book--and suddenly he began to

laugh, a strange laugh, hoarse with elation, a laugh that even found

expression in the quick, triumphant glitter in his eyes. Several times

in the short period during which he had been here on the island he had

seen this little book, and more than once he had endeavoured

unostentatiously to obtain a closer look at it, but without success.

It was the old madman's little book--the little buff-coloured,

paper-covered little book that the old fool, he had noticed, would

frequently pull out of his pocket and consult for no reason apparently

other than that it had become a habit with him. It was a common book,

a very common book--an innocent book. Its title was on the cover. It

was a book of tide tables.

And again and again now Captain Francis Newcombe laughed. The bronze

key and the book of tide tables! The pieces of the puzzle aligned

themselves of their own accord into a complete whole. An hour later

every night! The old madman went out an hour later every night. _So

did the tide_! Those footprints there under the boathouse--not Paul

Cremarre's, the other ones! The succession of nights during which the

old maniac went out until the hour just before daybreak was

reached--and then the period of inaction. At _low_ water, like

to-night, eh? Yes, yes! He did not go out when the tide was low too

early in the evening or too late in the morning; in the former case for

fear of being seen, in the latter because it would be full daylight

before the tide would creep in to wash away the tell-tale footprints.

Paul Cremarre's presence there--his footmarks leading _away_ from the

water to the spot where he had collapsed and died! Cremarre with a

bronze key in his hand, and the old maniac's book of tide

tables--Cremarre had made an attempt to get the money _after_ the old

man had been there, and something, God knew what, had done him down

instead. It must have been subsequent to the old man's visit, for

Marlin was now in his room--he, Captain Francis Newcombe, had listened

at the fool's door when he had returned long after three o'clock from

that trip to the old hut in the woods--and three o'clock was past the

hour of low water, and old Marlin had appeared to be quietly asleep,

which under no circumstances would he have been had he been conscious

of the loss of his key and book. There were a dozen theories that

would logically reconstruct the scene--but none of them mattered. It

was the existing fact that mattered. Cremarre, hidden himself, might,

and very probably had, watched the old maniac at work; afterwards,

whether the old man had lost the key and book from the pocket of his

dressing gown as it flapped around him and Cremarre had found them, or

Paul Cremarre, than whom there was no craftier thief in Christendom,

had succeeded in purloining them, again mattered not a whit. What

mattered was that there was only one place now where the old maniac's

secret depository could be--only one. And he, Captain Francis

Newcombe, now knew where that one place was.

And yet again he laughed--loud in his evil joy, vauntingly in his

triumph. It was his now! There was no longer anything to mar his

plans. Nemesis was dead! No haunting thing to strike any more out of

the darkness and drive him back, with bared teeth, against the wall, to

make of him little better than a cornered rat. Why shouldn't he laugh

now--at man, or devil, or Heaven, or hell! He was _master_--as Shadow

Varne had always been master. He tossed the bronze key up in the air

and caught it again with deft, yet savage grasp. The hiding place was

found. There was only a keyhole to look for now. A keyhole ... a

keyhole.... Mad mirth caught up the words and flung them in jocular

song hither and thither within his brain. A keyhole ... a keyhole....

"You'd raise your cursed voice to bawl at Shadow Varne, would you, Paul

Cremarre?" he cried. "Well, damn you--thanks!"

Just the turning of a key in a lock! But the water was too high

now--the tide was coming in. A key wasn't any good to-night--the place

wasn't locked only by a key, it was time-locked by the tide. He

snatched up the little book and consulted it hurriedly. It would be

low tide to-morrow morning at a quarter past three. Well, to-morrow

morning, then, since he couldn't have a look at the place to-night. He

could well afford the time now! And meanwhile with the key gone, the

old maniac couldn't do anything--except raise an infernal row, and

become even a little more maniacal, if that were possible. Too bad!

But then, the poor old man probably wouldn't _live_ very long anyhow!

And then, besides, quite apart from the tide to-night, there was

Runnells, who--

He swept the articles from the table suddenly back into his pockets.

Where was Runnells? What the devil was keeping the man? He should

have been back by now!

Captain Francis Newcombe switched off the light, and, walking quickly

from the room now, closed the door behind him. And now he frowned in

impatient irritation as he made his way along the verandah of the

boathouse and down to the shore. Confound Runnells, anyway! Where was

he? It was already beginning to show colour in the east, and the

darkness was giving way to a grey, shadowy half-light. In another

quarter of an hour the dawn would have broken. There was no time to

spare!

He stood for a moment staring toward the fringe of trees that hid the

path to the house. There was still no sign of Runnells. With a quick,

muttered execration at the man's tardiness, he turned abruptly and

began to make his way in under the boathouse. At the spot where Paul

Cremarre's body lay the slope of the shore was very gentle, and the

incoming tide would therefore cover the ground the more rapidly. He

had forgotten that. Paul Cremarre had only been four or five yards

away from what was then the water's edge when he had left him, and

unless he wanted to find the body floating around now, he had better--

He halted short in his tracks, but close to the water now. His heart

had stopped. What was that? Involuntarily now he staggered back a

pace. It wasn't light enough to see distinctly; it was only light

enough to see shadowy things, things that suddenly moved in the gloom

before him, things that, from the water, waved sinuously in the

air--like slimy, monstrous, snake-like tentacles--that reached out and

crept and wriggled upon the shore itself. The place was alive with

them, swarming with them. They _were_ tentacles! They were feeling

out, feeling out everywhere, and--God, were they feeling out for him!

He sprang sharply backward as a light breath of air seemed to have

fanned his cheek. He heard a faint _pat_ upon the earth as of

something soft striking there; he saw a slithering thing, like a

reptile in shape and movement, swaying this way and that as though in

search of something upon the spot where he had stood.

He felt his face blanch. He drew back still farther. A dark blotch

lay near the water's edge--that was Paul Cremarre's body. And now one

of those sinuous, creeping tentacles, a grey, viscous, clutching arm,

fell athwart the body--and the body seemed to move--slowly--jerkily as

though it struggled itself to escape from some foul and loathsome

touch--toward the water.

Captain Francis Newcombe gazed now, a fascination of horror seizing

upon him. Two curious spots showed out there in the water. Not

lights--they weren't lights--but they were in a sense luminous. They

seemed to _stare_, full of insatiable lust, gibbous, protuberant from

out of the midst of that waving, feeling, slithering forest of

tentacled arms.

He swept his hand across his eyes. Was he mad? Was this some ugly

fantasy that he was dreaming--and that in his sleep was making his

blood run cold? Look! _Look_! Those two luminous spots were coming

nearer and nearer--eyes, baleful, hungry--eyes, that's what they were!

They were coming closer to the shore--to the body of Paul Cremarre. A

dripping tentacle, waving in the air, swayed forward, and dropped and

curled and fastened around the body--that was the second one there.

It was _too_ light now! The sight was horror--but the fascination of

horror held him motionless. There was no head to the thing, just a

monstrous, formless continuation of abhorrent _bulk_ from which were

thrust out those huge, repulsive tentacles--from which was thrust out

another now to fasten itself, for purchase, upon one of the small,

outer concrete piers that rose from the deeper water beyond.

And again the body of Paul Cremarre moved. And there was a sound. The

gurgling of water.

It had a beak like a parrot's beak, and the mandibles opened now--wide

apart--to uncover a cavernous mouth. And the eyes and the tentacles of

the thing began to retreat from the shore.

The gurgle of water again.

A white shirt sleeve showed for an instant--and was gone.

A splashing. A commotion. A swirl. An eddy.

Then in the shadowy light a placid surface, the looming central pier of

the boathouse, the little piers, the roof above--the commonplace.

A voice spoke at his side--Runnells':

"Where's Paul Cremarre?"

Captain Francis Newcombe's handkerchief, with apparent nonchalance,

went to his face. It wiped away beads of sweat.

"I don't know what you'd call the thing," he said casually. "The

scientists seem to refer to the species under a variety of names--you

may take your choice, Runnells, between poulpe, devil fish and octopus.

It's a bit of an unpleasant specimen whatever name you choose. It's

gone now--and so has Paul Cremarre."

"An octopus!" Runnells stared through the dim light toward the water.

"You mean it--it got Paul?"

"Yes," said Captain Francis Newcombe. He returned the handkerchief to

his pocket.

"Gawd!" said Runnells in a shaky whisper. "An octopus! I know what

that is. The thing's got suckers that would tear the flesh off you.

That's where those marks on Paul's face must have come from. He must

have had a fight with it before we found him."

"Yes," said Captain Francis Newcombe, "he undoubtedly did. It's rather

obvious now that he had just managed in a dying effort to break loose

and reach the shore. And the brute was crafty enough to know, I fancy,

and waited for the tide to come farther in to bag its prey. Anyway,

you won't need those spades you've got there now--and incidentally,

Runnells, where the devil have you been all this time?"

Runnells was swabbing at his brow.

"It--it knocked me flat, that did," he said with a sudden, wild rush of

words; "but it ain't any worse than what's happened up there. Hell's

broke loose--just hell--that's what! The old bird's gone and done it.

Shot himself, he has."

Captain Francis Newcombe's hand reached out and closed in a quick,

tight grip on the other's shoulder.

"Come out of here!" he said abruptly. He led Runnells out beyond the

overhang of the verandah, and in the better light stared into the man's

face. "Now, then, what's this you say? Old Marlin's shot himself?"

"By accident," said Runnells, nodding his head excitedly; "leastways,

that's what I suppose you'd call it."

"Dead?" demanded Captain Francis Newcombe.

Runnells laughed nervously.

"You're bloody well right he's dead!" he said gruffly. "Dead as a

herring! That's what the row's all about."

"Tell your story!" ordered Captain Francis Newcombe shortly.

"Well, when I went up there from here," said Runnells, "I saw the house

all lit up, and the blacks all running around, and the whole place

humming. And they spotted me, some of the servants did, and all began

talking at once about the old bird having shot himself, and they seemed

to take it for granted that I knew too--d'ye twig?--that I'd been in

the house, of course, and had got up and dressed, having heard the

shots. The only play I had was to keep my mouth shut and let 'em think

so--and listen to them. It seems, as near as they knew, that his nibs

had been asleep, and suddenly wakes up and goes blind off his top, and

runs upstairs with a revolver, and goes to Locke's room, and opens the

door and begins shooting, and all the time he's screaming out at the

top of his lungs, 'you're one of them, you're one of them; but I'll

kill you before you open it!' Locke must have had his nerve with him.

Anyway, he jumped out of bed and tried to get the revolver away from

the old fool. By this time the whole house was up, and some of the

black servants took a hand by trying to collar his nibs, but Marlin

breaks away from them somehow, and runs for the stairs like a mad bull.

He must have tripped going down, or knocked his arm, or something,

anyway his revolver goes off and when they got to him he was at the

bottom of the stairs with a hole in his head." Runnells paused for a

moment, but, eliciting no comment, went on again: "Well, while I was

getting all this information that I was supposed to know, Locke comes

out on the verandah and spots me. 'I've just been to your room,

Runnells,' he says. 'Do you know where Captain Newcombe is?' And I

says, 'No, sir, I don't; leastways,' I says, 'I've been too excited to

notice.' Then he says I'd better try and find you, and that gave me

the first chance to get away and cop these spades. I sneaked around

through the woods at the back of the house with them."

Captain Francis Newcombe lighted a cigarette.

"Sneak back with them, then, the same way," he said calmly.

"Right!" said Runnells.

"_Now!_" said Captain Francis Newcombe. "And you haven't been able to

find me."

"Right!" said Runnells again, and started off at a run.

Captain Francis Newcombe began to walk leisurely across the beach

toward the path leading to the house. He puffed leisurely and with

immense content at his cigarette. In the light of certain knowledge

possessed by himself alone, the whole thing was as clear as daylight.

The old maniac had wakened up, and in some way had discovered for the

first time that his key and book were gone--that had set him off. It

was rather rough on Locke to have been selected as the thief! But

there was no accounting for what a lunatic would do!

He was chuckling to himself now. An explanation of his absence from

the house at this hour? It was too simple! Polly would substantiate

it. Polly's scruples about keeping silent were now useless--to him!

He had thought the old madman must have telephoned from the boathouse.

He had got up and dressed, and gone down to see--and, of course, had

seen nothing!

He flicked his cigarette away. And now he laughed--laughed with the

same evil joy, the same savage triumph, but magnified a hundredfold

now, with which he had laughed a little while ago in the boathouse back

there. Only the laughter was silent now--it was his soul that rocked

with mirth. The gods were very good! The black of the night had

brought a dawn of incomparable radiance! That was poetic! Ha, ha!

Well, why not poetry? He was in exquisite humour. It was like wine in

his head--that, too, was poetry, wasn't it?--somebody had said it

was--or something like it. Nor God, nor man, nor the devil could stay

him now! He had only to be circumspect in the house of death--and help

himself. Almost poetry again! Excellent! The old fool dead! Even

the trouble and annoyance of staging an accident was now removed. The

old fool dead--with his secret. They would hunt a long time--and it

would forever be a secret.

Except to Shadow Varne!

--III--

THE WARP AND THE WOOF

Howard Locke stood leaning with his shoulder against one of the

verandah pillars. Behind him, in the house, he was conscious of a sort

of hushed commotion. Out on the lawn in front of him little groups of

negroes stood staring at the house with strained, uplifted faces, or

moved across his line of vision in frightened, pathetically humorous

efforts to keep an unobtrusive silence--walking on tiptoes in their

bare feet on the velvet lawn. Queer how the black faces were mellowed

into softer colours in the early morning light!

Mr. Marlin was dead. Locke's eyes half closed; his lips drew together,

compressed in a hard line. Strange! In one sense, he seemed still

dazed with the events of the last hour; in another sense, his mind was

brutally clear. He was dazed because even yet it seemed impossible to

grasp the fact that so sorrowful, and dire, and unrecallable a tragedy

was an actual, immutable, existent truth. It was not that Mr. Marlin

in a sudden paroxysm of demented frenzy should have done what he

had--even to the extent that the old man's attack should have been

directed against his, Locke's, person. He could quite understand that.

In the aquarium, only a few hours before, the old man had used

identically the same words that he had shouted as he had burst in the

bedroom door and had begun firing wildly: "You are one of them! ...

You are one of them!" And then, apart from what had transpired in the

aquarium, there had been the shock of the attack on the path almost

immediately afterward. The old man had not lost his money, but he had

gone back to the house--he, Locke, had seen that too--and, instead of

sleeping, these things had probably preyed and preyed upon his mind

until he had lost the little reason that had been left to him and a

homicidal mania had developed. All that was quite easily understood.

As Polly had said, the specialist had predicted it if the old man

became over-excited--and Miss Marlin had feared it. It was not this

phase, so logically explainable, of what had happened that affected him

still in that dazed, numbed way; it was the fact, so much harder to

understand, that quick and sudden, in the passing of a moment, old Mr.

Marlin was gone.

He straightened up a little, easing the position of his shoulder

against the pillar. On the other hand, from an entirely different

aspect, that of the _consequences_ as applied to his own course of

action, his mind had been clear, irrevocable, settled in its purpose

almost from the instant that--first to reach the old madman's side--he

had found Mr. Marlin dead. It was the end! He was waiting now for

Captain Francis Newcombe to return--from wherever the man had taken

himself to.

The sight of the awed, grief-stricken figures on the lawn stirred him

suddenly with keen emotion. The girls were upstairs in Dora Marlin's

room together and-- He wrenched his mind away from the course toward

which it was trending. For the moment it would do neither them nor

himself any good; for the moment he was waiting for--Captain Francis

Newcombe.

A queer smile came and twisted at his lips. Was it defeat--or victory?

The smile passed. His face became grave again. There was Captain

Francis Newcombe now--at the far edge of the lawn.

The man was strolling leisurely toward the house, then, suddenly

pausing for an instant, he as suddenly broke into a run, elbowing his

way unceremoniously through the groups of negroes, and, reaching the

steps, covered them in a bound to the verandah.

"I say!" he burst out breathlessly as he halted before Locke.

"Whatever is the matter? This hour in the morning and every light on

in the house--and all those negroes out there?"

"I've been waiting for you," said Locke quietly. "Come in here." He

led the way to the French window by which he had found entry into the

house a few hours before, and passed through into the room beyond.

Captain Francis Newcombe followed.

"I say!" he repeated, closing the glass door with a push behind him.

"What's up, old man?"

"Mr. Marlin is dead," said Locke briefly.

"Dead!" Captain Francis Newcombe stared incredulously. "Why, he

wasn't ill--at least not in that way. I don't understand."

It was a small room, a sort of adjunct to the library which led off

from it toward the rear of the house. Howard Locke's fingers were

aimlessly turning the leaves of a book which lay on the table in the

centre of the room, and beside which he was standing now.

"A belief that he was being followed, that some one was trying to take

his money away from him, turned him from a harmless lunatic into a

dangerous madman," Locke said slowly. "He seemed to believe that I

was, to use his own words, 'one of them,' and he tried to shoot me in

my room. The household was aroused. The servants came. We tried to

subdue him. But he broke away from us then, and in running down the

stairs fell, I think, and his revolver went off in his hand, killing

him instantly."

"Good God!" said Captain Francis Newcombe heavily. "That's awful! And

that poor girl--Miss Marlin!"

"Yes," said Howard Locke, his fingers still playing with the leaves of

the book.

Captain Francis Newcombe appeared to be greatly agitated. He took out

his cigarette case, opened and shut it several times, and finally

restored it to his pocket with its contents untouched.

"It's ghastly!" he ejaculated; and then in a slower, more meditative

tone: "But with the shock of it over, I can't say I'm particularly

surprised. He struck me as acting in a more than usually peculiar

manner all day yesterday, and especially last night, or, rather, this

morning--as a matter of fact, it was on account of Mr. Marlin himself

that I was out of the house when it happened. He telephoned Polly

about four o'clock this morning and nearly frightened her to death.

She came to my room in a pitiful state of distress. He told her her

mother was dead. God knows why--except that it shows how mad he was.

From Polly's description of the conversation during which she had

distinctly heard the sound of waves and the slam of a door in the wind,

I decided that he must have telephoned from somewhere outside. The

only place I could think of was the boathouse. If the man was as bad

as that, I was afraid something might happen to him, so I dressed and

went out. It is obviously unnecessary to say that I did not find him.

Polly and I both decided, on Miss Marlin's account, to say nothing

about it, but I can see nothing to be gained now, in view of what has

happened, by keeping silent."

"No; there could be nothing gained by it now," agreed Locke a little

monotonously. "As you imply, it is only cumulative evidence of the

man's state of mind just prior to his death."

"Exactly!" nodded Captain Francis Newcombe gravely. "But, after all,

that is apart from the immediate present. I suppose you have already

seen to what you could here in the house, but there still must be many

things to do."

Howard Locke closed the book, and stepped a little away from the table,

a little nearer the other.

"There are," he said with quiet deliberation. "But there is one thing

in particular for you to do. The mail came over from the mainland very

late last night. It naturally hasn't been touched this morning and is

still in there"--he motioned toward the door leading from the rear of

the room--"on the library table. There is a letter there for you, a

very urgent one, demanding your instant return to London."

Captain Francis Newcombe's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly--but his

voice was a drawl:

"I don't think I quite understand. May I ask how you happen to know

the contents of the letter?"

"I am speaking in a purely suggestive sense," Locke answered, his voice

hardening a little. "There is no letter for you that I know of. I am

suggesting a plausible explanation which you can make to Miss

Marlin--_and Miss Wickes_--for leaving this place at once."

Captain Francis Newcombe stiffened, but his voice still retained its

drawl.

"I am tempted to believe that insanity is infectious," he said; "either

that, or perhaps my own intelligence is sadly astray this morning. I

have neither the desire nor the intention to leave here, and especially

at a time such as this when I might possibly be of even a little

assistance to those who have been so hospitable to me, and so I do not

require any excuse, however plausible or ingenious, for going away."

Locke's eyes rested appraisingly for a long moment on the other's cool,

composed, suave face. Well, was it any cooler, any more self-possessed

than his own? What of passion that was boiling within did not show on

the surface!

"Nevertheless," he said steadily, "that is the excuse you will give.

One of the motor boats is going over to the mainland in a little while,

and you are going on her. I have already had your baggage--and

Runnells'--put on board."

"You--_what_?" The red was suddenly in Captain Francis Newcombe's

face. He took a quick step forward, his hands clenched. "My baggage

sent out of the house--by your orders!" he said hoarsely. "You've gone

a bit too far now, my man, and you'll explain yourself--and explain

yourself damned quick! Out with it! What's the meaning of this?"

Locke had not moved. His eyes had not left the other's face. There

was something strangely _tempting_ about that face; it induced an

almost uncontrollable impulse to _mark_ it, to batter it, to wreck it

with a rain of blows that would not cease until physical exhaustion

intervened and one could strike no more. And yet his hands hung idly

at his sides.

"Yes"--Locke's voice was not raised--"I will tell you the meaning of

it. You are going for two reasons. The first is because you are

morally responsible for Mr. Marlin's death; and the second is because

you are--_what you are_--and as such, from the moment you say good-bye

to her here, you are going out of Polly's life forever."

Captain Francis Newcombe came still a step nearer.

Locke's eyes had not left the other's face. He read a cold, ugly

glitter in the gaze that held on his; he saw the curious whitening of

the other's lips--and a knotted fist suddenly drawn back to strike.

And with a lightning movement Locke caught the other's wrist and flung

the blow aside.

"Don't do that!" he said in a dead tone. "God knows, it's hard enough

to keep my hands off you as it is; but what is between you and me is

not measured, or in any way altered by a brawl--and besides I cannot

brawl here in this house where Mr. Marlin lies dead, and where there is

already distress enough."

For a moment Captain Francis Newcombe did not speak; then abruptly he

began to laugh, and, stepping over to a chair at the end of the table,

flung himself nonchalantly into it.

"Upon my soul, Locke," he said coolly, "what I said at first in jest, I

believe now must be true. I believe you've gone completely off your

head. I'd like to hear why you think I am morally responsible for Mr.

Marlin's death; and, particularly, I'd like to know what--"

"I want to get this over," said Locke, with a set face. "You are

clever. If it appeals to a certain sense of morbid vanity in you, that

they say all criminals possess, I grant at once that you are as clever

a scoundrel, and as miserable and inhuman and unscrupulous a one, as

ever blasphemed the image in which God made him."

Captain Francis Newcombe strained upward from the chair, his lips

working--but Locke stood over him now and pushed him back.

"Don't get up!" he said with savage curtness. "You are going to hear

more than that before I am through. I said you were clever--but your

cleverness will do you no good here. This is the end, Newcombe. You

took a child out of the slums of London--bought her in some unholy

fashion, I imagine, from a woman named Mrs. Wickes; you sent the child

out of England to America, and educated her in a school, especially

selected I also imagine, where she would be brought into intimate

contact with, and form her friendships amongst, the daughters of

wealthy Americans of high social position. Why? In the light of what

has happened, the answer is plain enough: That you might use her

introduction into these homes as an entrée for yourself to further your

own criminal purposes."

Locke paused.

A cold sneer had gathered on Captain Francis Newcombe's lips.

"You employed the word 'imagine' on both counts," he said. "I

congratulate you."

"Quite so!" said Locke icily. "I may even employ it again. I am not

imagining, however, when I say that you received a letter from Polly

telling you that Mr. Marlin had half a million dollars in cash here on

this island, and--"

"Did Polly tell you that?" demanded Captain Francis Newcombe sharply.

"Innocently--yes," Locke answered. "And in her letter she also told

you 'all about everything here,' to use her own words, which could not

help but embrace the fact that Mr. Marlin was not right in his

mind--yet, strangely enough, in the smoking room of the liner, you will

perhaps remember, you had had no idea of any such thing, and even

expressed anxiety for the safety of your ward."

Captain Francis Newcombe was painstakingly polishing the finger nails

of one hand on the palm of the other now.

"One might possibly conceive a man to be eccentric and attribute his

idiosyncrasies to that cause--without thought of classifying him as a

raving lunatic," he observed in a bored voice.

Locke shrugged his shoulders.

"Perhaps there is a better explanation of your _mistake_," he said

evenly. "You did not, at that time, have the slightest idea that I,

too, would be one of the party on this island."

Captain Francis Newcombe looked up from his finger nails.

"Did you?" he inquired softly.

"Yes," said Locke curtly.

"Ah!" Captain Francis Newcombe, with eyes half closed now, studied

Locke's face for a full minute before he spoke again. "I am becoming

rather curious as to just who you are, Locke," he murmured finally.

"You ought to know," Locke responded grimly. "I imagine it was you who

went through my papers that night in my cabin."

"That is the third time," suggested Captain Francis Newcombe, "that you

have said 'imagine.'"

"Yes." Locke smiled without humour. "I happen to _know_, however,

that from the moment of your arrival here Mr. Marlin became more and

more obsessed with the belief that he was being watched and followed.

I know from his own statement that he rather cunningly laid a false

trail--to an old hut in the woods behind the house, wasn't it,

Newcombe? And it is rather conclusive evidence, I should say, that the

man who followed that trail was the man who was watching Mr. Marlin. I

saw you coming from that direction at three o'clock this morning. You

were unsuccessful, of course; but you are none the less, as I said

before, morally responsible for Mr. Marlin's death."

Captain Francis Newcombe leaned back in his chair, and laughed softly,

insolently, contemptuously.

"As I understand the indictment," he said coolly, "it is to the effect

that I left London for the purpose of coming here and stealing some

money that I knew a madman had hidden. The evidence against me is from

beginning to end purely circumstantial, and most of it is admittedly

imaginative. The one 'damning' fact adduced is that I was seen coming

from somewhere at three o'clock this morning. This is a bit thick,

Locke--coming from you!" His voice was beginning to lose its suavity.

"You don't _imagine_, do you, that any such 'case' as that would hold

water for an instant in any court of law?"

"No," said Locke quietly; "I know it wouldn't. I quite agree with you

there."

Captain Francis Newcombe's face for an instant held a look of

puzzlement, as though he had not heard aright--then it stiffened into

ugly menace.

"I think you need a lesson!" He spoke from between set lips. "This is

no longer merely ridiculous, or absurd, or cracked-brained. It is

monstrous!"

"Again I agree with you." Locke's voice was low now, rasping his

words. "It is so monstrous that, strong as the circumstantial evidence

against you is, I would not have been able to credit it had I not had a

basis for belief that permitted of no denial. I know you for exactly

what you are. I know that you are a criminal, that you are one by

profession, that you have no other profession, that you are without

conscience, inhuman, ruthless, a fiend who would do honour to hell

itself."

"By God!" Captain Francis Newcombe with livid face surged up from the

chair to his feet.

But Locke's face, too, was white now with passion, as with a suddenly

outflung hand he thrust the other away.

"I am not through yet," he said. "Denial, any attitude of pretended

righteous indignation, or any other attitude that may suggest itself to

you as the best mask to adopt, is hardly worth your while when

attempted with one who once very narrowly escaped being one of your

victims--with a man who once, because you feared he possessed the

information that you know now he does possess, you tried to murder with

cold-blooded deliberation."

"You?" Captain Francis Newcombe, with head thrust forward, his eyes

narrowed, searched every lineament of Locke's face.

"Look well!" Locke spoke with scarcely any movement of the lips, in a

cold, dead way, without inflexion in his voice. "Look well! It will

do you little good. You never saw my face before. Shall I tell you

where I first saw _yours_? It was in a thicket one night, a night

during the great German offensive. There were four men there. Three

of them sat together with their backs against the trees; the other lay

face down on the ground a little distance away. A stray shell burst

nearby. One of the three, a Frenchman, called it a straggler. 'Like

us,' you said. I am the fourth straggler."

Captain Francis Newcombe drew slightly back. He made no other

movement. He said nothing. His eyes remained riveted on Locke's face.

"I was almost done in that night," said Locke. "I'd had two days and

two nights of it. I did not hear all you said--what particular place

it was, for instance, that had been robbed. I heard of the share that

each of you had played in the affair. I saw your faces. I heard the

Frenchman, a self-admitted crook, hail you as a greater than

himself--yes, as a greater even than any criminal in all France. I

heard you check him with your name on his lips. I heard him call your

attention to my presence there. I heard you say you had not

forgotten--and in a flare of light I saw you with your rifle across

your knees, its muzzle only a few feet away from my head. Then in the

ensuing darkness I was lucky enough to be able to wriggle silently back

a few yards in among the trees--and a second later I saw the flash of

your rifle shot."

Locke stopped. His lips were dry. He touched them with the tip of his

tongue.

The two men stood eying each other. Neither moved.

Locke spoke again:

"As I crawled out of that thicket I swore that I would pay you for that

shot if it took all my life to bring you to account. I did not know

your name, I did not know where you came from or where you lived; but I

knew your face--and I was sure, as we are sometimes strangely sure of

the future, that some time, in some place, you and I would meet again.

But it was four years before we did; and in those four years, during

which I have travelled a great deal on my father's business, no man's

face, in a crowd, or merely in passing on the street, whether here or

abroad, but that I searched in the hope that it might be yours. And

then I saw you--in London--just a few days before we sailed. I

followed you to your apartment, and I saw the other two--Runnells, and

the Frenchman, whose name I discovered was Paul Cremarre. I secured an

introduction to you at your club, and I learned from you that you were

sailing within a day or so on a certain ship. I told you I was sailing

on the same ship. Within an hour after I had left you at the club, I

did two things: I booked passage on that ship; and I engaged a man who

was recommended to me as one of the best private detectives in England.

With the knowledge that you were a criminal, it was only a question of

a short time then before the detective would unearth your record, or

that you would be caught in some new venture; and meanwhile, leaving

him to work up your 'history,' I crossed with you, and suggested the

yachting trip as I did not intend to let you out of my sight again

until you were trapped. And I think, but for the fact that you have

been told now, that would have been accomplished even more quickly than

I had expected. At one of the stops that I purposely made on the way

down the coast on the _Talofa_, I received a letter from the detective

mailed in London the day after we sailed. He said that developments

had been such that he was working in conjunction with Scotland Yard,

and that he expected to be able to send me a very _satisfactory_ report

within a day or so."

Captain Francis Newcombe took his cigarette case from his pocket for

the second time--but now he calmly lighted a cigarette.

"And so," he said smoothly, "just at the moment when, after four long

years, you are about to reap the fruits of your labour, you tell me to

go. Where? Into the trap--waiting for me over there on the mainland?"

"No," said Locke bitterly. "Where you will; you and Runnells--and Paul

Cremarre. We'll have no more trouble from any of you here."

Captain Francis Newcombe paused suddenly in the act of lifting his

cigarette to his lips.

"This Paul Cremarre you speak of," he said, "what makes you think he is

here?"

"Because I expected him to be here," said Locke shortly. "He was one

of the three of you. He could not very well form part of your retinue

as Runnells did. He would have to come separately. I know he is here

because I saw a man wearing a mask last night. I have reason to know

it was not you; and since I superintended the packing of Runnells'

baggage and have also seen Runnells himself, I know--for reasons that

need not be explained--that it was not Runnells."

"I see," said Captain Francis Newcombe. "So it must have been this

Paul Cremarre--since the three would be here together. I regret that I

was not fortunate enough to have the advantage of your viewpoint, even

though you honour me with the credit of having arranged all these

little details. And so, at the moment of your supreme success we are

to go--we three. May I ask why this change of heart?"

Howard Locke reached into his pocket and took out a faded envelope that

was torn at one end.

"These," he said, his voice rasping hoarsely again, "are Polly's

papers--her birth certificate, the marriage certificate of her

parents--the proof of perhaps the most contemptible and scoundrelly

crime you have ever committed; I say 'perhaps' because there may be

lower depths of beastliness and inhumanity of which only a mind such as

yours could conceive. You know where these papers were found. Besides

using Polly as your cat's-paw and your tool, making her innocence serve

your vile ends, you robbed her of her claim to even honest parentage!"

His face had grown white to the lips, his voice was almost out of

control. "And yet it is Polly--_Polly Gray_--who is saving you now! I

have no change of heart. I never, even on that night in the thicket,

wanted to square my account with you as I do now. But for Polly's sake

I cannot do it. I love her more than I hate you. I want to save her

from the sorrow and distress she would suffer if she knew the truth of

what has happened here; and above all I want to save her from the

misery and shame of having her name publicly connected with yours were

you brought as a common criminal to stand in the dock. And so you are

going--where I do not know. Not London, or anywhere else, as Captain

Francis Newcombe any more--for you would no longer dare do that with

the police at last hot on the investigation of your career. But you

are going out of her life never to contaminate it again. And this is

the bargain that I make with you--that she shall never hear from you

again. I compound no felony with you. I have no power to hold you,

even were I an officer of the law, without specific evidence of a

specific crime. That such evidence will inevitably be forthcoming is

certain, but for the moment there is no warrant for your arrest. You

will make the excuse for your departure as I have suggested--and later

on a brief notice of the death of Captain Francis Newcombe in some

distant place will account for your continued silence, and remove you

out of her life."

Captain Francis Newcombe blew a smoke ring in the air and watched it

meditatively.

"Excellent!" he murmured. "And if I refuse? To save Polly, you would

have to call your bloodhounds off."

"It is too late for that," said Locke sternly. "And even if it were

not, it would be better that Polly should suffer even the shame of

publicity than that you should remain in any way in touch with her

life."

"I see!" murmured Captain Francis Newcombe again. "But with exposure

as inevitable as you say it is, it is too bad that Polly

should--er--nevertheless suffer her share of this shameful publicity

whether I go or not."

"You fence well," said Locke with a grim smile. "Scotland Yard sooner

or later _will_ know, but they will not make public what they know

until they have laid hands upon their man. It is _your_ freedom that

is at stake. I told you I did not think you would venture to return to

London."

"Locke," said Captain Francis Newcombe softly, "permit me to return the

compliment--but also with reservations. You are clever--but having

overlooked one little detail, as so often happens even to the cleverest

of us all, your scheme as regards keeping Polly in ignorance of my

unworthiness falls to the ground. That envelope you hold in your

hand--I was wondering--it simply occurred to me--how Polly was to be

informed that--er--her name is--I think you said--Gray."

"I had not overlooked it," Locke answered evenly. "Polly's parentage

is a matter that precedes your entry into her life by many years; it is

a matter that is logically within the knowledge of this Mrs. Wickes. I

shall cable London to-day. There will be means of securing Mrs.

Wickes' confession on this point. These papers will come from her."

"Ah, yes!" said Captain Francis Newcombe gently. "Quite so! Perhaps,

after all, _I_ am the one who overlooked detail. But if by any chance

this Mrs. Wickes could not be found--what then?"

Locke studied the other's face. It was impassive; no, not quite

that--there was something that lurked around the corners of the man's

mouth--like a hint of mockery.

"In that case," he said steadily, "I should have done my best to save

her from the knowledge of what you are, for I should have to tell her;

but meanwhile you will have gone from here, and, as I have already

said, she will be saved the brutal notoriety that would attach to her

wherever she went, and until she died mar her life, if Captain Francis

Newcombe's 'case' were blazoned abroad from the criminal courts of

England--and that, in the last analysis, is what really matters." He

thrust the envelope abruptly back into his pocket, and as abruptly took

out his watch and looked at it. "I do not want to detain the boat.

You know where to find Paul Cremarre. Get him, and take him with you.

Your baggage has been searched--so has Runnells'. I do not for a

moment think you found that which specifically brought you to this

house. I doubt, indeed, now that Mr. Marlin is dead, if it ever will

be found by anybody. But in so far as you are concerned, assurance

will be made doubly sure--the three of you will be subjected to a

_personal_ search before you are landed on the other side." He snapped

his watch back into his pocket. "Shall I find out if Miss Marlin is

able to see you?"

Captain Francis Newcombe examined the glowing tip of his cigarette with

every appearance of nonchalance--but the brain of the man was seething

in a fury of action. He was beaten--in so far as the existence, the

entity of a character known as Captain Francis Newcombe was

concerned--he was beaten.... This cursed, meddling fool had beaten

him.... Damn that shot that he had missed in the darkness.... He

could not draw his revolver and fire another and kill this man--not

_now_.... To do that here would be suicide.... And, besides, there

was still half a million dollars.... Quite a sop! ... Mrs. Wickes

didn't count one way or the other--but Paul Cremarre--that was

awkward.... The island must be left in quiet and repose in so far as

anything pertaining to the attempted robbery was concerned--an incident

that with his departure was closed.... Paul Cremarre must be accounted

for.... Well, the _truth_ was probably the safest, since denial would

only result in a search for a _third_ man that Locke knew had been

here.... That Locke should think that Paul Cremarre had come here as

part of the prearranged plan was probably all the better.... It left

no lingering doubts....

He looked up--his eyes cold and steady on Locke.

"I regret, I shall _always_ regret, that I missed that shot," he said

deliberately; "but for whatever satisfaction it will bring you, I admit

now that you have beaten me. I agree to your terms. I will go; so

will Runnells--but I can't take Paul Cremarre. Paul Cremarre is dead.

He died this morning. A rather horrible death. I found him on the

shore a little way from the water's edge, his clothes in ribbons--in

fact, one of his coat sleeves was completely torn away and--"

"The man I was looking for had a white shirt sleeve," said Locke

quietly.

"Well, your search is ended then, if that will give you any further

satisfaction," said Captain Francis Newcombe gruffly. "His white shirt

sleeve was the least of it. His face and throat were covered with

round, purplish blotches, and the man was absolutely mangled. He had

the appearance of having been _crushed_--as they say a python crushes a

victim in its folds. And, damn it, that's not far from what happened!

How he had first come into contact with the monster I don't know, but

he had been in a fight with a gigantic octopus, and had evidently just

managed to crawl ashore out of the thing's reach temporarily, and had

died there." Captain Francis Newcombe laughed unpleasantly. "The

reason I know this is because I saw the creature--the tide was higher,

of course, when I found the body--come back and carry off its prey.

You will pardon me, perhaps, if I do not describe it in detail.

It--er--wasn't nice."

Locke stared at the other for a moment.

"That's a rather strange story," he said slowly. "But I can't see

where it would do you any good to lie now."

Captain Francis Newcombe helped himself to another cigarette, lighted

it, and suddenly flung a mocking laugh at Locke.

"No," he said, "I'm afraid that's the trouble--it wouldn't do me any

good to lie now. And so I might as well tell you, too, that there's no

use sending that cable to London about Mrs. Wickes, either. Mrs.

Wickes is also dead. For reasons best known to myself, I did not

choose to tell Polly about the woman's death, so I fear now that,

lacking that estimable old hag's co-operation in the resurrection of

those papers, you will have to resort to telling Polly, after all, a

little something about her cherished guardian. However, Locke, on the

main count, that of notoriety, if it depends upon Scotland Yard ever

getting their man, I think I can give you my personal guarantee that

she will never be--"

He stopped, and whirled sharply around.

One half of the French window was swaying inward.

With a low cry, Locke sprang past the other.

"Polly!" he cried.

She was clutching at the edge of the door, her form drooping lower and

lower as though her support were evading her and she could not keep

pace with its escape, her face a deathly white, her eyes half closed.

Locke caught her as she fell, gathered her in his arms and carried her

to a couch. She had fainted. As he looked hurriedly around for some

means of reviving her, Captain Francis Newcombe spoke at his elbow.

"Permit me," said Captain Francis Newcombe. He was proffering the

water in a flower vase from which he had thrown out the flowers.

Mechanically Locke took it, and began to sprinkle the girl's face.

"Too bad!" said Captain Francis Newcombe pleasantly. "Er--hardly

necessary, I fancy, for me to explain my sudden departure for England

to her--what? I'll say _au revoir_, Locke--merely _au revoir_. We may

meet again. Who knows--in another four years! And I'll leave you to

make my adieus to Miss Marlin."

Locke made no reply.

The door closed. Captain Francis Newcombe was gone.

Polly stirred now on the couch. Her eyes opened, rested for an instant

on Locke's, then circled the room in a strange, quick, fascinated way,

as though fearful of what she might see yet still impelled to look.

"He--he's gone?" she whispered.

"Yes," Locke answered softly. "Don't try to talk, Polly."

She shook her head. A smile came, bravely forced.

"I--I saw him from upstairs--on the lawn coming toward the house," she

said. "After a little while when he did not come in, I went down to

find him. I did not see him anywhere, and--and I walked along the

verandah, and I heard your voices in here--heard something you were

saying. I--I was close to the door then--and--somehow I--I couldn't

move--and--I wanted to cry out--and I couldn't. And--and I heard--all.

And then I felt myself swaying against the window, and somehow it gave

way and--and--"

She turned her face away and buried it in her hands.

Something subconscious in Locke's mind seemed to be at work. He was

staring at the French window. It had given way. It hadn't any socket

for the bolt at top or bottom. Strange it should have been that

window! He brushed his hand across his eyes.

"Polly," he said tenderly, and, kneeling, drew her to him until her

head lay upon his shoulder.

And then her tears came.

And neither spoke.

But her hand had crept into his and held it tightly, like that of a

tired and weary child who had lost its way--and found it again.

--IV--

THE TIME-LOCK OF THE SEA

Low tide at three-fifteen! Captain Francis Newcombe, in the stern of a

small motor boat, drew his flashlight from his pocket and consulted his

watch. Five minutes after two. He nodded his head in satisfaction.

Just right! And the night was just right--just cloudy enough to make

of the moonlight an ally rather than a foe. It disclosed the island

there looming up ahead now perhaps a mile away; it would not disclose

so diminutive a thing as this little motor boat out here on the water

creeping in toward the shore.

The boat was barely large enough to accommodate the baggage, piled

forward, and still leave room for Runnells and himself. Also the boat

leaked abominably; also the engine, not only decrepit but in bad

repair, was troublesome and spiteful. Captain Francis Newcombe

shrugged his shoulders. The engine was Runnells' look-out; that was

why, as a matter of fact, Runnells was here at all. As for the rest,

what did it matter? The boat had been bought for the proverbial song

over there on the mainland, and it was good enough to serve its present

purpose.

Again he changed his position, but his eyes narrowed now as they fixed

on Runnells' back. Runnells sat amidships where he could both nurse

the engine and manipulate the little steering wheel at his side.

Runnells was a necessary evil. He, Newcombe, did not know how to run

the engine. Therefore he had been obliged to bring Runnells along, and

therefore Runnells would participate after all in the old fool's half

million--_temporarily_. Afterwards--well there were so many things

that might happen when Runnells had lost his present usefulness!

Runnells spoke now abruptly.

"It's pretty hard to make out anything ashore," he said; "but if we've

hit it right, we ought to be just about heading for a little above the

boathouse. Can you pick up anything?"

"Nothing but the outline of the island against the sky," Captain

Francis Newcombe answered. "We're too far out yet."

Runnells' sequence of thought was obviously irrelevant and disconnected.

"The blinking swine!" he muttered savagely. "Stripped to the pelt and

searched, I was--and you, too! And kicked ashore like a dog! Gawd,

it's too bad they ain't going to know they'll have had the trick turned

on 'em after all! I'd give a good bit of my share to see Locke's face

if he knew. He wouldn't think himself such a wily bird maybe!"

"You're a bit of a fool, Runnells," said Captain Francis Newcombe

shortly.

His train of thought had been interrupted. Runnells had suggested

another--Locke. Captain Francis Newcombe's hands clenched suddenly,

fiercely in the darkness. _Locke_! Some day, somewhere--but not now;

not until the days and months, yes even years, if necessary, were past

and gone, and Locke had forgotten Captain Francis Newcombe, and

Scotland Yard had forgotten--he would meet Locke again. And when that

time came there would be no ammunition _wasted_ as there had been in

that damned thicket that night! Locke! The fool doubtless thought

that he had been completely master of the situation and of Captain

Francis Newcombe--even to the extent of _obliterating_ Captain Francis

Newcombe. Well, perhaps he had! It was quite true that the clubs of

London, and, yes, for instance, the charming old Earl of Cloverley,

would know Captain Francis Newcombe no more--but _Shadow Varne_ still

lived, and Shadow Varne with half a million dollars, even in a new

environment, wherever it might be, did not present so drear and

uninviting a prospect. Ha, ha! Locke! Locke could wait--that was a

_pleasure_ the future held in store! What counted now, the only thing

that counted, was getting the money actually into his possession--that,

and the assurance that the trail was smothered and lost behind him.

Well, the former was only a matter of, say, an hour or so at the most

now; and the latter left nothing to be desired, did it?

He smiled with cool, ironic complacency. Locke, having in mind

Scotland Yard, would expect him to disappear as effectually and as

rapidly as possible. Locke ought not to be disappointed! He _had_

disappeared; he and Runnells--and, equally important, their luggage.

One was sometimes too easily traced by luggage--especially with that

infernally efficient checking system they employed on the railroads

here in America! It had been rather simple. When Runnells and the

luggage and himself had all been dumped with equal lack of ceremony on

a wharf over there on the mainland, he had had some of the negroes that

were loitering around carry the luggage into a sort of storage shed

that was on the dock, and, merely saying that he would send for his

things, he and Runnells had unostentatiously allowed themselves to be

swallowed up by the city. And then they had separated. The rest had

been a matter of detail--detail in which Runnells, with the experience

of years, was particularly efficient. A purchase here, a purchase

there--quite innocent purchases in themselves--and later on a man, _not

two men_, but one man, a man who did not at all look like Runnells,

seeing the chance of picking up a bargain in a second-hand motor boat

somewhere along the waterfront, had bought it and gone away with it.

Later on again, but not until after nightfall, not until nine o'clock

in fact, he, Captain Francis Newcombe, had "sent" for the luggage--by

the very simple expedient of forcing an entry into the shed and loading

it into the motor boat that Runnells had brought alongside the dock.

Thereafter, Runnells, the luggage and himself had disappeared. Surely

Locke ought to be quite satisfied--he, Captain Francis Newcombe, was

doing his best to guarantee Polly against any unseemly publicity in

connection with Scotland Yard! And he would continue to do so! With

any kind of luck, he would be away from the island here again long

before daylight; then, say, a few nights' cruising along the coast,

laying up by day, and then, as circumstances dictated, by railroad, or

whatever means were safest, a final--

With a smothered oath, Captain Francis Newcombe snatched at the gunwale

of the boat for support, as he was thrown suddenly forward from his

seat. The boat seemed to stagger and recoil as from some vicious blow

that had been dealt it, and then, as he recovered his balance, it

surged forward again with an ugly, rending, tearing sound along the

bottom planks, rocking violently--then an even keel again--and silence.

Runnells had stopped the engine.

"My Gawd," Runnells cried out wildly, "we've gone and done it!"

Captain Francis Newcombe was on his feet peering through the darkness

to where Runnells, who after stopping the engine had sprung forward

from his seat, was now groping around beneath the pile of luggage.

"A reef, eh?" said Captain Francis Newcombe coolly. "Well, we got over

it. We're in deep water again. Carry on!"

Runnells' voice came back full of fear.

"We're done, we are," he mumbled. "I stopped the engine the minute she

hit, but she had too much way on her--that's what carried her over.

She's bashed a hole in her the size of your head. She won't float five

minutes."

"Start her ahead again, then!" Captain Francis Newcombe's voice snapped

now.

"It won't do any good," Runnells answered, as he stumbled back to his

former place. "She won't anywhere near make the shore--it's half a

mile at least."

"Quite so!" said Captain Francis Newcombe. "But, in that case, we

won't have so far to swim!"

The engine started up again.

"It ain't as though we didn't know there was reefs"--Runnells was

stuttering his words--"only we'd figured with our light draft we

wouldn't any more than scrape one anyhow, and it wouldn't do us any

harm. But she's rotten, that's what she is--plain rotten and putty!

And we must have hit a sharp ledge of rock. Gawd, we've a foot of

water in us now!"

"Yes," said Captain Francis Newcombe calmly. "Well, don't blubber

about it! We'll get ashore--and we'll get away again. There's half a

dozen skiffs and things of that sort stowed away in the boathouse that

are never used now. One of them will never be missed, and we can at

least get far enough away from the island by daybreak not to be seen,

and eventually we'll make the other side even if it is a bit of a row."

"Row!" ejaculated Runnells.

"Yes," said Captain Francis Newcombe curtly. "Why not--since we _have_

to? We can't steal a motor boat whose loss would be discovered, can

we?"

"My Gawd!" said Runnells.

The water was sloshing around Captain Francis Newcombe's feet; the boat

had already grown noticeably sluggish in its movement. He cast an

appraising eye toward the land. It was almost impossible to judge the

distance. Runnells had said half a mile a few minutes ago. Call it a

quarter of a mile now. But Runnells was quite right in one respect; it

was certain now that the boat would scuttle before the shore was

reached.

"How far can you swim, Runnells?" he demanded abruptly.

"It ain't that," choked Runnells, "I can swim all right; it's--"

"It was just a matter of whether your body would be washed up on the

shore, which would be equally as bad as though the boat stranded there

for the edification of our friend Locke," drawled Captain Francis

Newcombe. "But since you can swim that far, and since the boat's got

to sink, let her sink here in deep water where she won't keep anybody

awake at night wondering about her--or us. Stop the engine again!"

"But the luggage," said Runnels, "I--"

"It will sink out of sight quite readily, but run a rope through the

handles and lash the stuff to the boat so it won't drift ashore--yes,

and anything else that's loose!" said Captain Francis Newcombe tersely.

"I can't swim a quarter of a mile with portmanteaus! Stop the engine!"

"Strike me pink!" said Runnells faintly, as he obeyed and again

stumbled forward to the luggage.

Captain Francis Newcombe sat down and began to unlace his boots. The

water was nearly level with the bottom of the seat.

"Hurry up, Runnells!" he called.

"It's all right," said Runnells after a moment.

"Take your boots off then, and sling them around your neck," ordered

Captain Francis Newcombe.

"Yes," said Runnells.

Captain Francis Newcombe stood up and divested himself of a light

raincoat he had been wearing. From the skirt of the garment he ripped

off a generous portion, and, taking out his revolver and flashlight,

wrapped them around and around with the waterproof cloth. The coat

itself he thrust into an already water-filled locker under the seat

where it could not float away.

"Ready, Runnells?" he inquired.

"Yes," said Runnells.

"Come on, then," said Captain Francis Newcombe.

The gunwale was awash as he struck out. A dozen strokes away, as he

looked back, the boat had disappeared. He cursed sullenly under his

breath--then laughed defiantly. It would take more than that to beat

Shadow Varne.

Runnells swam steadily at his side.

Presently they stepped out on the shore.

Captain Francis Newcombe stared up and down the beach, as he seated

himself on the sand and began to pull on his boots.

"We're a bit off our bearings, Runnells," he said. "I couldn't see any

sign of the boathouse even when I was swimming in. And I can't see it

now. Which way do you think it is?"

Runnells was also struggling with his wet boots.

"We're too far up," he answered. "I thought I had it about right, but

I figured that if I didn't quite hit it, it would be safer to be on

this side than the other so we wouldn't have to pass either the wharf

or the house in getting to it."

"Good!" commented Captain Francis Newcombe. "We'll walk back that way,

then."

They started on along the beach. For perhaps half a mile they walked

in silence, and then, rounding a little point, the boathouse came into

view a short distance ahead. A moment later they passed in under the

overhang of the verandah.

And then Runnells snarled suddenly.

Captain Francis Newcombe was unwrapping his flashlight. The faint,

stray rays of moonlight that managed to penetrate the place did little

more than accomplish the creation of innumerable black shadows of

grotesque shapes.

"What's the matter?" he demanded.

"The damned place in under here gives me the creeps after last night,"

Runnells growled.

"It's not exactly pleasant," admitted Captain Francis Newcombe casually.

"You're bloody well right, it ain't!" agreed Runnells fervently. And

then sharply, as the ray from the flashlight in Captain Francis

Newcombe's hand streamed out: "That's where _he_ lay last night, only

the water's farther out now. It's blasted queer the thing never

tackled the old madman in all this time."

"On the contrary," said Captain Francis Newcombe, "it would rather

indicate that the brute was a transient visitor."

"Then I hope to Gawd," mumbled Runnells, "that it didn't like the

quarters well enough to stick them for another night."

"I agree with you," laughed Captain Francis Newcombe coolly; "but, as

it happens, it's low tide now and the water is out beyond where we are

going--which may offer an alternative solution to old Marlin's escape.

However, Runnells, that's not what we are looking for--we're looking

for a keyhole."

He led the way forward, his flashlight playing on the big central

concrete pier, some eight feet square, in front of him. He was

chuckling quietly to himself. It being established that the old

maniac's hiding place was here under the boathouse, a hiding place that

was opened by a key, and that, except at low tide, was inaccessible,

the precise location of that hiding place became obvious even to a

child. The row of little piers that supported the structure at the

sides and front were all individually too small to be _hollow_--and

there was absolutely nothing else here except the big centre support.

With Runnells beside him now, he began to examine this centre pier

under the ray of his flashlight. He walked once completely around it,

making a quick, preliminary examination. The pier was some six or

seven feet in height, and the concrete construction was reinforced with

massive iron bands placed both horizontally and transversely between

two and three feet apart, the small squares thus formed giving a sort

of checkerboard effect to the mass. The lower portion was green with

sea-slime. There was no apparent evidence of any opening.

But Captain Francis Newcombe had not expected that there would be.

"Look for a little hole, Runnells," he said. "Anything, for instance,

that might appear to be no more than a _fault_ in the concrete. And

look particularly above high water mark. The opening is below because

the old man could only get in at low tide; but the keyhole is more

likely to be above out of the reach of the water because it must be

watertight inside."

"Yes," said Runnells.

They made a second circuit of the pier, but carefully now, searching

minutely over every inch of surface. It took a long time--a very long

time--a quarter of an hour--a half hour--more.

And still there was no sign of either keyhole or opening.

"Strike me pink!" grumbled Runnells. "It looks like it was sticking to

us to-night! This is what I calls rotten luck!"

"And I was thinking that it was excellent--even beyond expectations,

Runnells," said Captain Francis Newcombe smoothly. "The old man has

done his work so well that it is certain no one would _stumble_ on it.

Therefore, when we get away, we do so with the absolute knowledge that

an _empty_ hiding place will never be discovered. You follow that,

don't you, Runnells? No one except you and I will know that the money

was ever found--or taken."

"Yes," said Runnells gruffly; "but we ain't got it yet. And we must

have been at it a good hour already--and the tide's coming back in now."

"Quite so!" said Captain Francis Newcombe evenly. "But if we don't get

it to-night, there is to-morrow night--and the night after that again.

There are always the woods, and your ability as a thief guarantees us

plenty to eat. Meanwhile, we'll stick to this side here fronting the

sea--it's the logical place--one couldn't be seen even from under the

verandah back there. Go over every bit of the iron work now."

Another quarter of an hour passed in silence--save for the lap of the

water that, with the tide on the turn now, had crept up almost to the

base of the pier. The flashlight moved slowly up and down and to right

and left as the two men crouched there, bent forward, their fingers,

augmenting the sense of sight, feeling over the surface of the cement

and iron that here was barnacle-coated, and there covered with festoons

of the green slime.

"It's no good!" said Runnells pessimistically at last. "Let's try

around on another side, and get out of the water--I'm standing in it

now."

"It's here--and nowhere else," said Captain Francis Newcombe doggedly.

"And, furthermore, I'm certain it's one of these squares inside the

intersecting pieces of iron. It would be just big enough to allow a

man to crawl in and out--and not too big or too heavy for one man to

handle alone. It can't be anything else. Whatever's here the old man

made himself--no one helped him, understand, Runnells? His secret

wouldn't be worth anything in that case. Go on--hunt!"

But Runnells, instead, had suddenly straightened up.

"I thought I heard something out there like--like a low splashing," he

said tensely.

Captain Francis Newcombe paid no heed. He was laughing, low,

jubilantly, triumphantly.

"I've got it, Runnells!" he cried. "Here's a bit of the iron down here

that moves to one side--just a little piece. Look! And the keyhole

underneath! I was wrong about the keyhole being above high water--it

isn't, or anywhere near it--but we'll see how the contrivance works."

He thrust his hand into his pocket, brought out the bronze key, fitted

it quickly into the keyhole, and turned it. A faint _click_ answered

him. "Push, Runnells, on that square just above the water--it's bound

to swing inward--these iron strips hide the joints."

But he did not wait for Runnells to obey his injunction. He snatched

the key out of the lock again, and even as he saw the piece of iron

swing back into place covering the keyhole, he was pushing against the

concrete slab himself. It swung back and inward from its upper edge

with a sort of oscillating movement. His flashlight bored into the

opening. Clever! The old maniac had had the cunning of--a maniac! It

was quite clear. Old Marlin had cut away the square and fitted it with

a new block--yes, he could see!--the interior would, of course, have

been flooded at high water while the old madman was preparing the new

block, but that made no difference--the place would always empty itself

at low tide again because the flooring, or base, in there was on the

same level as the lower edge of the opening--and it would be when it

was empty of water, naturally, that the new block would be fitted into

place--and thereafter it would remain empty.

He was crawling through the opening now--the weight of the swinging

block causing it to press against his shoulders, but giving way easily

before his advance. There was just room to squeeze through. Very

ingenious! The walls were a good foot to a foot and a half thick. The

lock-bar worked through the side of the pier wall into the _middle_ of

the edge of the movable block so no water could get in that way; and

the block when closed fitted in a series of gaskets against the inside

of the iron bands that reinforced the outside of the pier, which

latter, overlapping the edges of the block, hid any indication of an

entrance from view. It must have taken the old fool weeks! Again

Captain Francis Newcombe laughed. His head and shoulders were through

now, and, with his flashlight's ray flooding the interior, he could see

that--

A cry, sudden, wild, terror-stricken, from Runnells reached him.

"Quick!" Runnells cried frantically. "For the love of Gawd make room

for me--the _thing's_ here! Quick! Quick! Let me get in!"

The _thing_! In a flash Captain Francis Newcombe wriggled the rest of

his body through the opening, and, holding back the movable block, sent

his flashlight's ray streaming out through the opening. It lighted up

Runnells' face, contorted with fear, ashen to the lips, as the man came

plunging along; and out beyond, it played on a waving, sinuous

tentacle, another and another, groping, snatching, feeling--and from

out of the midst of these a revolting pair of eyes, and a beak, horny,

monstrous, in shape like a parrot's beak.

With a gasp Runnells came through, sprawling on the floor.

The movable block swung back into place with a little _click_.

Captain Francis Newcombe shrugged his shoulders.

"A bit of a close shave, Runnells," he said. "I fancy you're

right--last night was enough to his liking to bring the brute back

again. Rather a bore, too! Unless he moves off again, he's got us

penned up until low water."

"That'll be twelve hours," whimpered Runnells; "and it'll be daylight

then--and another twelve before we could get out when it's dark."

Captain Francis Newcombe shrugged his shoulders again. His flashlight

was playing around him. The hollow space here inside the pier was

perhaps six feet square, and solid concrete, top, bottom and sides.

This fact he absorbed subconsciously, as he reached quickly out now to

a little shelf that had been built out from one side of the wall.

There was a half burned candle here and some matches, and, lying beside

these, a package wrapped in oiled-silk. He struck a match, lighted the

candle, switched off his flashlight, thrust it into his pocket, and

snatched up the package. An instant more and he had unwrapped it.

And unholy laughter came, and the soul of the man rocked with it. It

rose and fell, hollow and muffled in the little space where there was

scarcely room for the two men to move without jostling one another.

_The money_! He had won! It was his! Locke--Paul Cremarre--Scotland

Yard--ha, ha! Well, they had pitted themselves against Shadow

Varne--and Shadow Varne had never yet failed to get what he went after,

in spite of man, or God, or devil--and he had not failed now--and he

never would fail!

He was tossing the bundles of bank notes from hand to hand with

boastful glee.

"This'll buck you up a bit, Runnells!" he laughed. "You'll be well

paid for waiting even if it has to be until to-morrow night--eh, what?"

Runnells, on his feet now, a sudden red of avarice burning in his

cheeks, grabbed at one of the bundles, and began to fondle the notes

with eager fingers.

"Gawd!" he croaked hoarsely. "Thousand-dollar notes! Strike me pink!

Gawd!"

Captain Francis Newcombe was still laughing, but his eyes had narrowed

now as, watching Runnells, there came a sudden thought. Would he

_need_ Runnells any more? There wasn't any motor boat to run--but it

was a long way in a rowboat for one man over to the mainland. _Here_

in the old maniac's hiding place--ideal--and a bit of irony in it

too--delicious irony! Well, it did not require _instant_ decision.

Meanwhile it seemed to be strangely oppressive in here in the confined

space.

"It's stuffy in here, Runnells," he said. "Pull that door, or block,

or whatever you like to call it, back a crack and freshen the place up."

The "door" was fitted with a light brass handle, similar to a handle

used on a bureau drawer. Runnells stooped, still clutching a bundle of

bank notes in one hand, and gave the handle a careless pull. The block

did not move. He gave the handle a vicious tug then, but still with

the same result. He dropped the bundle of bank notes, and used both

hands. The block did not yield.

"I can't move the damned thing," he snarled. "It seems to be locked."

Captain Francis Newcombe's voice was suddenly cold and hard.

"Try again!" he said. "Here, I'll help you! Take your coat off and

run the sleeve, the two of them if you can, through the handle so we

can both get hold."

Runnells obeyed.

Both men pulled.

The handle broke away from its fastenings. The block did not move.

"It's locked, I tell you," panted Runnells. "Haven't you got the key?"

"Yes," said Captain Francis Newcombe quietly; "but there's no hidden

keyhole here. It's locked from the outside--a spring lock. I remember

now hearing it click. The old man would set it so that he could get

out, of course, every time he entered. We didn't."

"Gawd!" said Runnells thickly. "What're we going to do?"

Captain Francis Newcombe's eyes studied the four walls and roof. He

spoke more to himself than Runnells.

"Say, six by six by six," he said. "Roughly, two hundred cubic feet.

Watertight--hermetically sealed--no air except what's in here now. One

hundred cubic feet per man--short work--very short."

"What do you mean?" whispered Runnells with whitening face--and coughed.

"I mean that brute out there, if it still is out there, counts for

nothing now," said Captain Francis Newcombe steadily. "We could at

least _fight_ that--we can't fight suffocation. I'd say a very few

minutes, Runnells, before we're groggy if we can't get air--I don't

know how long the rest of it will take."

Runnells screamed. His face grey, beads of sweat suddenly spurting

from his forehead, he flung himself against the cement "door," clawing

with his finger nails, where no finger nails could grip, around the

edges of the block. And then in maniacal frenzy he attacked the wall

with his pocketknife.

The blades broke.

Captain Francis Newcombe, with a queer, set smile, drew his revolver,

and, holding the muzzle close to the wall, fired. The bullet made

little impression. With the muzzle now held over the same spot he

fired again.

And now he choked and coughed a little.

The acrid fumes helped to vitiate the air.

"You're making it worse--my Gawd, you're making it worse!" shrieked

Runnells. "I can't breathe that stuff into me."

"I prefer to be doing something, even if it's pretty well a foregone

conclusion that it's useless--than sit on the floor and _wait_,"

Captain Francis Newcombe answered. "A bullet probably hasn't the ghost

of a chance of going through--but if a bullet won't, nothing that we

have got to work with will."

The lighted candle on the shelf began to flicker.

Captain Francis Newcombe fired again--once more--and yet still another

shot.

Runnells moaned and staggered. He went to the floor, his fists beating

at the wall until they bled.

Captain Francis Newcombe watched the candle.

The minutes passed.

The light grew dim.

Captain Francis Newcombe sat down on the floor.

A strange coughing, a mingling of choking sounds.

The candle flickered and went out.

Captain Francis Newcombe spoke. There was something debonair in his

voice in spite of its laboured utterance:

"The house divided, Runnells. Do you remember that night in the

thicket?"

There was no answer.

Again Captain Francis Newcombe spoke:

"I've saved two shots. Will you have one, Runnells? Suffocation's a

rotten way to go out."

"_No!_" Runnells screamed. "No, no--my Gawd--no!"

Captain Francis Newcombe's laugh was choked and gasping.

"You always were a stinking coward, Runnells," he said. "Well, suit

yourself."

The tongue flame of a revolver lanced through the blackness.

Runnells screamed and screamed again. Sprawling on the floor, his hand

fell upon the package of bank notes he had dropped there. He tore at

them now in his raving, tore them to pieces, tore and tore and

tore--and screamed.

But presently there was no sound in the old madman's hiding place.

The tides are tongueless. They came and went, and kept their secret.

In England, Scotland Yard sought diligently for the murderer of Sir

Harris Greaves; and on a little island of the Florida Keys long search

was made for a great sum of money that an old madman in his demented

folly had hidden--but neither the one nor the other was ever found.

THE END

BY FRANK L. PACKARD

THE FOUR STRAGGLERS

JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE

DOORS OF THE NIGHT

PAWNED

THE WHITE MOLL

FROM NOW ON

THE NIGHT OPERATOR

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE

THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE

THE WIRE DEVILS

THE SIN THAT WAS HIS

THE BELOVED TRAITOR

GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN

THE MIRACLE MAN

NEW YORK

GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY