Spencer Vance had not been idle while in the subterranean
warehouse; but, with his masked lantern, he had gone about,
and, in a regular business-like manner, had made an inventory
of the merchandise scattered about; and he had also copied all
the shipping-marks and also all the hieroglyphic brush signs.
He furthermore opened some of the cases, and put
identification marks on some of the goods indeed, he did his
work in a thorough and masterly manner. He had accomplished
wonders; but he was not yet safely off the island.
Later on the detective made some startling and ghastly
discoveries. He came upon a box containing human bones, and
he was sufficiently experienced to recognize that, in the case
of the remains, ordinary, decay had been supplemented by
artificial processes, and the latter discovery was a prima
facie testimony in favor of the theory that the bones were
those of murdered victims.
Our hero was still rummaging around when his attention was
attracted by human voices, and, closing the slide of his
lantern, he laid low and watched, and, a moment later, became
aware that some of the crew of the "Nancy" were in the
warehouse.
"I wonder," he muttered, "if they have came to look for me
here? If they have, I reckon I'm in a tight place!"
The detective crawled toward the place where the smugglers
were gathered, and he overheard their conversation.
One of them remarked.
"It's all nonsense to look for him in here."
"If it is Ballard, or Spencer Vance, I'd look for him in my
vest pocket; either one of those men would dare to go
anywhere."
"Well, search," commanded Ike Denman.
"Now I am a goner," was the mental declaration of the intrepid
revenue officer, while at the same time he was, resolved to
take all necessary precautions. He found a hiding place and
passed a full hour of anxiety, indeed, a mental strain that
would have turned a less nervy man gray.
The agony, however, passed, and he escaped discovery, and
heard one of the fellows say:
"He is not in here, that is certain."
"You're mistaken, Charley," muttered the detective to himself,
in a spirit of reckless facetiousness.
Ike Denman appeared to be completely disheartened, and he
said:
"I tell you, my good fellows, we're in trouble; that man has
got away."
"What will you do?"
"There is only one thing for me to do; I must go to New York
and report the situation at headquarters."
"We can get the goods away."
"It's easy to say we can get the goods away, but where will we
take them?"
"We can load the 'Nancy' down with the most valuable of them."
"That is a good idea, but you cannot get to work until
to-night."
"We can start in to-night."
"Where will you run her when she's loaded?"
"We can run outside and communicate."
"Do that, and meantime I will go on to New York. There is a
one o'clock train from the station on the other side. I will
go on that train."
"And we are to load the 'Nancy' to-night."
"Yes."
The detective overheard the whole of the above conversation,
and great drops of perspiration came out upon his forehead.
He was in a bad fix after all. Should Denman get to New York
ahead of him, he would lose his best grip after all.
Something must be done. He must get over to the mainland
before one o'clock, in time to take the train with Denman, at
all hazards.
Denman and a part of his crew passed from the warehouse while
one of the men remarked:
"I've some private property in here to look after and I'll see
to it at once."
A smile flitted over the face of the detective. He thought a
chance was about to present itself for him to get away.
A moment he lay quiet, and then emerged from his hiding-place.
The warehouse was artificially illuminated by a few swinging
lamps, and only one was lighted at the time.
The detective cautiously glanced around. He had prepared
himself for the work he had in hand. He saw a light in a
distant corner and he cautiously stole toward the light, and
came upon a man sorting over the contents of a sailor's
ship-sack.
It was a critical moment; life depended upon success, death
would follow, sure death, the failure of his plan.
Like a cat creeping toward an unsuspecting bird on a twig, the
detective crept toward the smuggler, knowing that when he
sprung upon his prey there must be no mistake.
The critical moment was reached, the officer made his leap
forward, and seized his man, seized him by the throat, and
when once Vance got his grip on a man's throat silence
followed; no man was ever known to make an outcry with those
powerful fingers grasped around his neck.
The man was, not a very powerful fellow, fortunately, and the
detective easily bore him to the ground. Having secured the
man, the detective said:
"I am going to lighten my grip on your throat. I wish to ask
you a few questions, answer me promptly and truthfully, and
you will save your life; but seek to make an outcry, and you
are a dead man. Now wink if you mean to keep quiet and save
your life?"
The mail winked.
"All right, old fellow, you know the value of your skin, I
see, and mark you don't make any mistake, for as certain as
you make the least effort to give an alarm, you are a dead
man; do you understand? If so, wink."
The man winked:
"That's all right," said the detective; and he released his
hold on the man's throat.
The man kept his word. He was not a very nervy chap, and was
terrified almost to death, as it was.
"What is your name?" demanded the detective.
"Why do you wish to know my name?"
The man spoke in a loud tone, when the detective said:
"Speak low, old man--very low, or you'll never speak again.
Now wink."
The man winked, and the detective said:
"Now tell me your name?"
"My name is Arbella."
"Your name is Arbella?"
"Yes."
"You are one of the crew of the 'Nancy'?"
"No."
"You are not?"
"I am not."
"What are you?"
"I am the doctor on the vessel. I've nothing to do with their
business."
"Oh, you're the doctor?"
"I am."
"Well, doctor, you are a lucky man. I did intend to silence
you, but I'll just shut you up temporarily; and now mind; if
you make the least noise or attempt to offer resistance, you
area dead man!"