CHAPTER I

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[Illustration: It looked as if the Mulatto knew this. _Page 82_

_Wyndhams Pal._]

WYNDHAM'S PAL

BY HAROLD BINDLOSS

AUTHOR OF "_The Buccaneer Farmer_," "_The Girl from Keller's_,"

"_Brandon of the Engineers_," _etc._

[Illustration]

WITH FRONTISPIECE

A. L. BURT COMPANY

Publishers New York

Published by arrangement with Frederick A. Stokes Company

COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY

PUBLISHED IN ENGLAND UNDER THE TITLE "WYNDHAM'S PARTNER"

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

PRINTED IN U. S. A.

CONTENTS

PART I--THE LURE OF AMBITION

CHAPTER PAGE

I THE COMMODORE'S CUP 3

II MOONLIGHT AND GLAMOUR 14

III CHISHOLM'S PERSUASION 26

IV THE MAN WHO VANISHED 35

V THE TORNADO 45

VI THE MIDDLE PASSAGE 54

VII THE TOW 64

VIII THE LAGOON 74

IX DON FELIX'S REVOLT 85

X MARSTON USES HIS POWER 97

XI MARSTON GOES TO SEA 107

PART II--WYNDHAM CLAIMS HIS REWARD

I MABEL PONDERS 121

II MABEL'S PEARLS 131

III PETERS' OFFER 142

IV THE LOST EXPLORERS 152

V WYNDHAM CHANGES HIS PLAN 161

VI PETERS RENEWS HIS OFFER 171

VII WYNDHAM PLEADS GUILTY 180

VIII UP HILL 190

PART III--REPARATION

I WYNDHAM PAYS DUTY 203

II MARSTON GETS A WARNING 213

III WYNDHAM TRIES PERSUASION 223

IV WYNDHAM FINDS A CLEW 232

V DON LUIS' BREAKFAST PARTY 242

VI A SAIL IN THE DARK 251

VII THE TUG 260

VIII AT THE MISSION 271

IX _Columbine_ STEALS AWAY 280

X THE BAT OWNS DEFEAT 288

XI THE BAT'S EXIT 299

XII THE FRESH START 308

WYNDHAM'S PAL

PART I

THE LURE OF AMBITION

CHAPTER I

THE COMMODORE'S CUP

The breeze had dropped as the tide ebbed, and _Red Rose_ plunged

languidly across the shining swell. Faint mist obscured the horizon and

the yachts engaged in the fifty-mile race had vanished, although Wyndham

thought he had not long since distinguished a sail in the distance. He

was curious about this because if he had seen canvas it was _Deva_'s,

and her skipper had probably seen _Red Rose_. The rest of the fleet was

scattered about to the north. Wyndham had noted their positions

carefully before the haze rolled up. He wanted to win and meant to leave

nothing to chance.

In the meantime, the yacht crept slowly through the sparkling water,

close-hauled to a light wind that Wyndham knew would not last. Her

canvas, tapering in a tall white pyramid, swayed with a regular heave

against the sky. In her shadow, the sea was a cool, luminous green, but

the sun was hot and Wyndham had taken off his coat. He wore a white

jersey, blue trousers, and very neat white shoes. His age was

twenty-six, his figure was thin but athletic, and the molding of his

face was good. On the whole, he was a handsome man and was generally

marked by a careless, twinkling smile. The smile, however, was to some

extent deceptive, and at times his blue eyes were hard. Wyndham was

popular; he had a way of inspiring confidence, and knew and used his

talent.

Marston, who sat on the yacht's coaming, splicing a rope, trusted

Wyndham far. Marston's round face was burned red and generally wore a

look of tranquil good-humor; his mouth was large and his eyes were calm.

People thought him dull and he was not clever, but Wyndham knew his

comrade's stability. Although Bob was honest and trustful, he was firm.

It was characteristic that the splice he slowly made was very neat.

Their paid hand was occupied at the clanking pump, for _Red Rose_ had

shipped some water while the breeze was fresh. This was not remarkable,

since the boat was small, but Wyndham knew, though Marston did not, that

a quantity of water had come in between her working planks. She was old

and needed repairs Wyndham could not afford. For all that, he hoped to

win the Commodore's cup. He had particular grounds for wanting the cup,

and Wyndham's habit was to get what he wanted.

"I think the splice will stand," Marston said, throwing down the rope.

"Your work does stand," Wyndham remarked.

"Oh, well," said Marston, deprecatingly, "I'm slow, but I like a good

job. Saves time in the end, because you needn't do the thing again."

"You're a philosopher, Bob. My plan is generally hit or miss. But can

you see _Deva_?"

Marston searched the horizon. The gently heaving sea was empty and _Red

Rose_ alone in a misty circle three or four miles across. Except for a

few razor-bills, nothing but the ripple she trailed broke the reflection

of the calm sky. Then his glance, traveling north, stopped and fixed on

something faintly distinguishable against the thin mist.

"No," he said, "I don't see her. Thought I did some time since but she's

faded. What's that in the distance on our starboard bow?"

"It's hard to tell. Might be a big black-backed gull resting on the

water. The misty light magnifies things."

"Shall I get the glasses?"

"Not unless you want them. They're under the stuff we stowed away in the

locker aft. If Charley has finished pumping, you might help him get out

the spinnaker. We'll have the wind fair when the flood begins to run."

Marston and the fisher-lad vanished down the forecastle hatch, and

Wyndham studied the distant object. He did not yet need the sail the

others had gone for, but he was afraid of Charley's keen eyes. A buoy

indicating a shoal was not far off and the sailing directions for the

race stated that all marks of this kind must be kept on the port hand,

but Wyndham knew the coast and imagined the tide was still ebbing in a

neighboring river mouth. The main stream ran north and would carry the

boats off their course, but near the shore another stream ran west

across some wide shoals. If he could steer _Red Rose_ into this current,

it would help her on while her rivals, farther off the land, drifted

back. When the others came up with the sail Wyndham wondered whether

Marston would ask for the chart, but he did not. The object they had

seen had vanished, for although the wind was light the boat slowly

forged ahead. The color of the smooth undulations indicated that the

depth got less.

"Looks as if we were near West Hodden sand," Marston remarked. "They had

a dispute at the committee about keeping us outside the bank. Makes a

longer run, but some of the deep boats might have touched bottom if

they'd tried to cross at low-water. Anyhow, it doesn't matter, so long

as we all keep out."

Wyndham nodded and began to talk about something else.

"I hope we'll get fine weather, because I need bracing up. When you have

not much money, business is a grind and I'm rather young to carry the

responsibilities of the house. Things might have been easier, had Jim

Wyndham not died two or three days after he fell ill."

Marston knew something about this. Wyndham Brothers was a small

old-fashioned firm and Harry had recently taken control on his uncle's

sudden death. James Wyndham was extravagant and Marston imagined he had

left his affairs involved. Marston had no occupation and all the money

he needed. Moreover, he was Harry's friend.

"Well," he said, "if you're short of capital, I think some could be got.

Sound investments don't pay much, and now and then I feel I'd like a

venture."

"You're a good sort, Bob. For all that, you had better leave business

alone, because you would get robbed. Of course, if I saw a safe and

profitable speculation, I might let you join, but just now I'm occupied

trying to put things straight. Some are badly tangled. I used to think

I could carve my way to fortune if I got a chance, but so far it's been

my luck to use broken tools."

Marston thought this was so. Harry was a good shot and racing skipper,

but he had never had a first-class gun or boat. Still, he used the

make-shifts well and sometimes beat better men.

"Yours is a pretty old house, isn't it?" Marston remarked.

"Wyndhams' was founded in the days of the slavers and privateers and has

traded in West Africa and South America ever since. The house was

famous, but its decline began when steamers knocked out the sailing

ships. We stuck to the old vessels and own one or two small schooners

yet, though they're only used for collecting cargo at beaches steamboats

do not touch. Some of the documents I've recently studied tell a

romantic tale. The Wyndhams were all adventurers and a number did not

die in bed. One or two vanished abroad. As perhaps you know, my uncle

Rupert did."

"I heard something about this," said Marston. "What happened?"

"Nobody knows. He left the West Indian factory; sailed off in a canoe

and was not seen again. Books and money were in order and his health was

pretty good. There was no explanation; he vanished, that's all. I saw

him once in England and thought him a sober business man. One got no

hint of wildness, but the house's records indicate a vein of romantic

extravagance in my ancestors. For all that, my father was a quiet

country parson and I have felt nothing of the kind."

Marston pondered. He knew Harry Wyndham rather well and had noted, in

moments of excitement and strain, a curious recklessness that was

perhaps not altogether normal. For example, there was the race when _Red

Rose_ and another yacht met close-hauled. _Red Rose_ was on the port

tack, and the rule was she must give way, but, until the last minute,

Harry sat unmoved at the tiller. Marston remembered the piled-up foam

about the plunging hulls as the yachts converged, the slanted pyramids

of sail that looked as if they must shock, and the horrible tension he

had felt. Then, when collision was imminent, Wyndham gave the other room

and afterwards laughed.

"I was tempted to find out how it would feel if we rammed her," he

confessed.

This, however, was some time since, and Marston did not dwell on the

incident. His temperament was essentially normal.

"No sign of a breeze from the east yet," he said.

"All the same, it will come," Wyndham rejoined.

Marston looked about. The sun was getting low and it was nearly calm.

Now and then the topsail flapped and the mainsail hung slack. Blocks

rattled as the heavy boom jerked about. The swell was smooth and in

color a curious shining green, as if the light were reflected through it

from beneath. It looked as if they were crossing a big sand, but Marston

did not sound. Harry knew the coast, and the sailing directions required

them to keep outside the shoals.

In the distance a steamer's smoke trailed across the sky; one heard her

engines beat with a monotonous rhythm. In front, the mist was melting

and vague gray hills were faintly distinguishable. The yacht's deck was

damp, but for the rolling she hardly moved.

"We had better get some food," said Marston. "I'll light the stove."

He went to the cabin and when, after the rude meal, they lounged and

smoked, the mist suddenly rolled away. Long hills, with woods among

their folds, ran back on the port hand; in the distance, a big black

headland cut against the sunset. The water astern was hazy and dotted by

sails. It was now a glassy calm.

"We're nearer the coast than I reckoned, but the ebb has given us a big

lift," Marston observed.

"The rest are a long way back, although I think they're moving."

"They've got the breeze and will bring it up," said Wyndham. "Hoist the

spinnaker."

For the next few minutes Marston and the paid hand were occupied with

the big triangular sail, which extended from the masthead to the end of

a boom they thrust over the boat's side. A British yacht's spinnaker is

not fitted with a gaff. At first the spinnaker hung slack, but presently

lifted in gentle curves; then the water splashed against the planks and

_Red Rose_ began to move. She gathered speed. There was a humming noise

astern, mast and rigging creaked, and foam leaped at the bows. It got

cold, white ripples streaked the sea, and the wake ran back in a foaming

wedge. The spinnaker swelled like a balloon and, with the tall mainsail

on the other side, dwarfed the speeding hull.

The sun dipped, the dark sea stood up in ridges above _Red Rose_'s rail,

spray began to fly, and one heard the rush of wind and groaning of

spars. The boat yawed about and steering needed skill, since, if

Wyndham let her swerve, spinnaker or mainsail would swing across and

mast or boom would go. For all that, he risked a glance over his

shoulder now and then. Some of the boats were coming up; they were

bigger craft and gave _Red Rose_ time by the handicap. She, however,

gave time to others, and must save it in order to win.

Wyndham let go while the sea got rough, for the flood tide now ran

against the freshening wind. While he swayed with the tiller she plunged

and rolled about, lifting her bows out of boiling foam and sometimes

burying them deep. Water flowed across her deck and presently began to

splash beneath the cockpit floor, and Charley started the clanking pump.

A full moon had risen and two big boats, with canvas that cut black

against the silver light, were getting near.

"I think we'll save our time," Wyndham said.

Marston looked at the high topsail and bending spinnaker boom. He would

have liked to haul the topsail down, but his comrade's voice had a

strange gay note that he had heard before. Harry meant to carry on; he

would drive the boat until something broke. Then Marston looked ahead.

The big promontory was not far off and moonlight touched the towering

crags. The sea was all white, for the current, setting strongly round

the head, ran in angry combers against the wind.

"We are going to get wet in the tide-race," he said. "You might find

slacker water if you edged her off a bit."

"And sail a longer course?" Wyndham rejoined. "We give _Deva_ four

minutes and she's not far astern."

Marston acquiesced. After all, his business was to obey. "Oh, well," he

said, "Charley and I had better get out on the booms."

He beckoned the paid hand and they crawled along the deck. _Red Rose_

rolled savagely and main boom and spinnaker boom tossed their ends

aloft. The spars must be kept down, lest they swing across, and Marston,

clasping the varnished pole with arms and legs, crawled out as far as he

dared. Sometimes he swung high above the combers that rushed past below;

and sometimes swung down until his body was wet by the foam. He could

hold on if Harry kept her straight, but if she swerved much the big

sails would lurch across and he and Charley would hardly escape with

broken bones. He looked aft. Wyndham's figure cut against the light; it

was tense and his head was motionless, as if his glance was fixed.

Marston knew he meant to bring _Red Rose_ in on her time allowance or

sail her under.

They drew round the head and reeled across a bay. A row of lights began

to blink and two colored lanterns tossed. Marston saw the lights for a

few moments when the spinnaker soared away from the boom. The race was

nearly over, for the colored lights marked the flag-boat, anchored off

the long iron pier. The committee had not given the yachts much room;

perhaps they thought of their comfort and anchored the steamer near the

beach so she would not roll about. Smart work would be needed to shorten

sail before they struck the pier.

A shadow touched the spinnaker and Marston looked astern. A swaying

pyramid of canvas shut out the moon and foam leaped about a plunging

hull. _Ptarmigan_ had crept up and would go past, but she was large and

allowed _Red Rose_ some time. Marston could not remember how much she

allowed; all he could do was to hold on, for his arms ached and his head

began to swim. A few minutes would finish the race, and he wondered

dully what would happen then. There were, perhaps, two hundred yards

between the flag-boat and the pier; they ought to haul down the

spinnaker now, but Harry would carry on.

He saw _Ptarmigan_'s topsail tilt downwards and dark figures run about

her deck. Her spinnaker collapsed like a torn balloon, but _Red Rose_

leaped on, pressed by straining sail. Then there was a flash, and the

report of a gun rolled among the crags ahead. They drove into the smoke,

speeding side by side with _Ptarmigan_, and the flash of another gun

pierced the dark. Marston, crawling in-board, dropped into the cockpit

as the flag-boat swept astern, and for the next few minutes he was

desperately occupied.

The spinnaker went into the sea, the topsail thrashed half-way up the

mast, and _Red Rose_ listed until the water was deep on her lee deck. A

white sea swept her forward as they hauled down the staysail; and then,

coming round, she plunged head to wind, a few yards from the dark

ironwork of the pier. Wyndham came to help and soon afterwards they

brought her to a safe anchorage. While they stowed the sails a gig

crossed the bows and somebody shouted: "Well done, _Red Rose_! You're

first by three minutes on handicap time."

Wyndham put on his jacket and lighted a cigarette. "Not bad for a boat I

bought because she was outclassed. Sometimes I wonder what I could do if

I had proper tools," he said. Then he laughed. "Anyhow, we had better

start the pump."

CHAPTER II

MOONLIGHT AND GLAMOUR

Rockets leaped up from the old castle on the narrow flat between the

woods and the strait. Colored fires burned behind the loopholes in the

ruined walls, and an admiring crowd occupied the lawn that slanted to

the water. The night was calm and when the band stopped the voices of a

choir, singing old part-songs on the pier, carried well. There was a

smell of drying seaweed, and the yachts' anchor-lights burned steadily

in rows that wavered with the eddying tide. The last race was over and

the townsfolk had given the crews a feast before the fleet dispersed.

Marston sat on a broken wall, talking to _Deva_'s owner about the race

along the coast. Elliot was a friend of Marston's. Chisholm, the

commodore's young son, stood close by, smoking a cigarette.

"You beat us handsomely and Wyndham deserves the cup for his pluck in

carrying on when we were forced to lower our topsail," Elliot admitted.

"Still something was due to luck; you got the last of the stream along

the shore when the tide running down the river carried the rest of us

back."

"Wyndham has a talent for that kind of thing," said Marston. "Sometimes

you feel he, so to speak, thinks like a fish. He doesn't need to

calculate when the tide will turn and where he'll find slack water. He

knows."

"Wyndham has a talent for getting what he wants," Chisholm interposed.

"_Deva_ ought to have beaten _Red Rose_."

"Aren't you rather young to judge?" Marston asked, with a touch of

dryness.

"Oh, well," said the lad, "I like a man who loses now and then. You can

understand that kind of fellow."

Elliot frowned. He could take a beating; but he was curious and looked

at Marston thoughtfully.

"I suppose you didn't see the Knoll buoy?"

"We did not," Marston replied. "There was something on the water in the

haze, but it was too small for the buoy. Wyndham thought it a gull, a

big black-back; his sight is pretty good."

"How did the thing bear?"

Marston hesitated, because he saw where the question led, but he was

honest.

"Nearly ahead; a point or two to starboard. Anyhow, it vanished,

although, as we didn't change our course, we must have passed the spot

rather close," he replied, forgetting that he was below when the object

vanished.

"Then it was a gull," Elliot agreed, but Chisholm was not satisfied.

"Elliot's a sportsman; I don't know if I am or not, because I was on

board _Deva_ and feel hurt we didn't get the cup. Wyndham's a smart

skipper, but his luck's too good. One's inclined to doubt a man who

always gets a prize. My notion is, it isn't altogether due to skill.

Besides, I think the commodore would have liked Elliot to win the cup."

"You're not a tactful lad and perhaps you're not in very good form just

now," Elliot remarked. "We'll go along and hear the band."

They went off and Marston lighted his pipe. He was rather angry with

young Chisholm, because he was persuaded Wyndham had not seen the buoy.

Harry was not the man to win a race by a shabby trick; Marston trusted

his friends.

In the meantime, Wyndham and Flora Chisholm occupied a bench in a quiet

corner of the castle wall. Now and then a colored fire blazed up on the

battlements and red reflections flickered about the crowded lawn, but

there were dark intervals when they saw the water sparkle and the black

hills across the strait. When the band stopped, one heard the soft

splash of the tide, and the choir singing old Welsh airs. Flora was

young and felt the glamour of the calm moonlight night.

Moreover, there was something strangely romantic about Wyndham. He was

handsome and marked by a dashing recklessness that rather carried one

away. Flora liked his pluck and bold seamanship. Her father was an old

navy man and the yacht club commodore, and she had inherited his love

for the sea. She had watched the finish of the race from the flag-boat,

and had seen _Red Rose_ reel past, horribly pressed by sail. Fine skill

and steady nerve were needed to bring the old boat in first.

Perhaps this was not important, but it was typical of Harry Wyndham; he

ran risks and laughed. It was bracing to know him and flattering to feel

that he was drawn to her. Yet Flora had some doubts; after all, she had

not known Wyndham long and he had drawbacks. He was poor, some of her

friends distrusted him, and Chisholm had given hints--he approved Jim

Elliot, and Flora thought Jim loved her. When Wyndham was away she

hesitated and wondered whether she was rash; when he was near she

thrilled and caution vanished. Presently she roused herself and began to

talk.

Wyndham got a hint of strain and his heart beat. He imagined Flora was

vaguely alarmed by his power to move her, but she did not go away.

Although her fresh beauty had first attracted him, he soon saw she had

qualities that strengthened her charm; she was proud, with a clean

pride, honest, and plucky. All the same, he was poor; his people were

known for their romantic extravagance and a touch of moral laxity. The

business of which he had recently taken control languished and had not

been very scrupulously carried on. Yet Wyndham was not daunted, and his

love for the girl was sincere.

"Things will look different to-morrow when the boats have gone and the

little town goes to sleep again," he said. "I feel doleful. The

holiday's nearly over and soon after sunrise there'll be nothing left

but a happy memory."

"Then you make an early start?"

"At half ebb; three or four o'clock. One wishes the night would last.

Nights like this are not numerous."

"You ought to be satisfied. You won the cup."

"I meant to win. For one thing, you wished me luck."

Flora blushed and wondered whether he could see her face. "After all,

that was not much help," she said. "My wishing you luck wouldn't alter

the wind and tide."

"It gave me an object and a stimulus. We are a curious lot and much

depends on our mood. When one's braced enough, obstacles don't count.

One runs risks and wins."

Flora was fastidious and got a faint jar. Yet she knew he was not a

boaster; he did what he said. Besides, she was flattered.

"You are stopping for a few days, with the Commodore?" he resumed.

Flora said she was and he frowned. "I must go. I ought not to have taken

the holiday, but the temptation was strong. Now I must make up for the

lost time."

"Your new business keeps you occupied?"

"Yes; it claims all my thought, though now and then I deny the claim.

The sea pulls and a boat's a fascinating toy; but a time comes when one

must put one's toys away."

"For all that, you came to the regattas and won the cup."

Wyndham smiled and, for the moon was bright, Flora noted the reckless

sparkle in his eyes.

"You know why I came and why I won the cup," he said. "Perhaps I'm vain,

but I wanted you to see I could beat the others whose toys are all that

occupy them. I have not their luck, and my object for coming drives me

back to town. If I'm to realize my ambitions, I have got to work."

"Then you are ambitious?" Flora remarked and looked away.

"Very," he replied quietly. "I know my drawbacks and they must be

removed. I have inherited the responsibilities of an embarrassed house.

My job's to repair its credit, wipe out debts, and make Wyndhams'

respected, as it was respected once. A big job, but the ambition behind

it gives me driving force."

He paused and gave her a steady look. "Your father's friends are

merchants and shipowners. You know I have much to build up and something

to live down."

Flora was quiet for a moment or two. She had heard her friends talk

about Wyndhams' and it was plain that they thought the new head of the

house something of an adventurer. For all that, she was moved. She liked

his frankness and his resolution. Looking about, she saw Marston and a

girl she knew cross the lawn, and was tempted to join them. Had it not

been for the glamour of the moonlight and sparkling sea, she might have

gone.

"I wish you luck again!" she said quietly.

"Ah," he said, "that will carry me far! Farther than you think, perhaps,

because I am going away."

Flora moved abruptly and he saw she was disturbed.

"Where are you going? Will you stop long?" she asked, and Wyndham knew

his chance had come. Her friends might blame him, but he meant to use

his power.

"To begin with, I'm going to West Africa, and then to South and Central

America. We have an old schooner in the Guinea coast and I expect to

sail her across. She can creep into lagoons and call at beaches the

steamers do not touch. Somebody must pull the house's vanishing trade

together and I am the head."

"But it's a long ocean passage and an unhealthy coast," Flora remarked,

with a note of strain in her voice. Altogether she tried to be calm.

"All the same, I must go, and go soon," Wyndham replied.

He stopped because he knew he had said enough, and Flora pondered. She

would miss him much and his going forced her to front a crisis she would

sooner have put off. She knew he loved her and he had a strange

fascination; he stood for romance and adventure, but she was

fastidiously honest and now and then he jarred. She felt vaguely that

there was something about him she did not like.

In the meantime, Marston and his companion came by again. The girl was a

friend of Flora's, but she passed without a glance and Flora knew she

disapproved. Somehow she wished her lover was like Bob Marston. Bob had

no fascination; indeed, he was rather dull, but he was frank and honest

and one trusted him. She knew she ought to join him and Mabel; there was

danger in stopping, but she did not go. Harry would sail at daybreak and

she would be lonely afterwards.

Marston and the girl went on, the music stopped, and Flora heard the

drowsy splash of the tide. The moonlight sparkled on the strait and she

felt a strange longing to be rash. One missed much unless one had pluck.

Then Wyndham put his hand on her arm and gave her a long ardent look.

"I am going away," he said. "I must go. For your sake, I must try to

mend my damaged inheritance. Will you marry me when I come back?"

Flora hesitated until he put his arm round her and her doubts vanished.

Romance conquered and passion swept her away. She yielded when he drew

her to him, and gave back his kiss. Then he let her go as people came

towards them and they crossed the lawn.

"My dear!" he said triumphantly. "I can conquer all my difficulties now

and make your friends approve. You have given me a power I never had; I

feel I can't be stopped."

His eyes were very bright and he lifted his head. He looked

unconquerable and his confidence was flattering. Flora's doubts had

gone. He was her acknowledged lover and she was very staunch.

"I must see your father when he gets back to town," Wyndham said

presently. "The committee will keep him until too late to-night."

"Yes," said Flora with faint misgivings, "you must see him soon."

Wyndham's eyes twinkled. "It's possible he will get a jolt. I'll own I

was half afraid; but I fear nothing now."

"He loves me," Flora answered with a quiet look, and Wyndham said

nothing, but pressed her arm.

They left the castle grounds for the quiet beach, and in the meantime

Mabel Hilliard and Marston leaned against the rails on the pier. For a

time the girl watched the water foam among the pillars and then looked

up.

"Why didn't you speak to Wyndham?" she asked.

Marston smiled. "I think the reason was plain; Harry didn't want us. Why

didn't you speak to Flora?"

Mabel made a sign of impatience. "I wanted to, but this would have been

different. Flora wouldn't have suspected you were meddling."

"I see," said Marston. "I'm known to be dull; but I'm not so dull that I

miss your meaning. Well, you know Harry Wyndham's my friend."

They were lovers who used no reserve, and Mabel did not hesitate.

"Flora's my friend," she said. "Do you always trust Wyndham?"

"If I didn't trust him, he wouldn't be my friend."

"In some ways, you're very nice, Bob. But I'm afraid. Flora's attracted

by Wyndham. I wish she were not."

"Why? Don't you like Harry?"

"It's rather that I love Flora. She's sincere and proud. She's

fastidious; I think I mean she's scrupulously honorable."

"Then you imply that Harry is not?" Marston asked, with a touch of

sternness.

"No, I don't altogether imply this; but I feel he is not the man for

Flora."

"Well," said Marston quietly, "I have known Harry long. He's clever and

generous; he has pluck and when strain comes is his best. I know what

some folks think about him, and Harry knows his handicap. The Wyndhams

were rather a wild lot, the family business was drifting on the rocks,

and the character of its recent head was not good. All this is a load

for Harry, but he'll run straight, and I feel my job is to help him

out."

Mabel was not much comforted, but she gave him a smile.

"If he is going to marry Flora, I want you to help him," she replied.

They went off and some time afterwards Wyndham came along the pier. The

fireworks were over and the crowd had gone, but a group of men stood

about some steps that led to a narrow stage where the yachts' boats were

moored. The tide ran fast, foaming against the iron pillars, but the

promenade above threw a dark shadow on the water. Wyndham stopped at the

steps and tried to see if _Red Rose_'s dinghy was tied among the rest.

It was too dark; all he could distinguish was a row of boats that swung

about. Then young Chisholm pushed past.

"The weed on the steps is slippery and I'm not going down. A yachtsman

jumps into a punt," he said.

A yacht's punt is small and generally unstable, and to jump on board

needs skill. Marston came up and seized Chisholm's shoulder.

"Don't be a fool, Jack!" he said. "It's six or seven feet. If you don't

capsize her, you'll go through the bottom."

"Think I can't jump six feet?" the lad exclaimed, and Wyndham imagined

he had drunk some wine at the committee supper. "Anyhow, I'll try."

He shook off Marston's hand and leaped. His dark figure vanished and

there was a splash below. Marston and the others climbed down the steps,

but Wyndham jumped. He went under water and knew the risk he ran when

he came up; he had known when he made the plunge. The tide swept him

past the boats and broke angrily among the ironwork. One might get

entangled and pulled down, and if a punt came to help, she would

probably capsize when the current drove her against a brace.

For a moment or two he drifted, and then saw something dark wash about

in a wedge of foam. It was Chisholm, clinging to an iron and trying to

keep his head above water.

"Let go! I'll pick you up on the other side," shouted Wyndham, and the

current swept them under a beam.

Then he grasped the lad's shoulder and steered him between two pillars.

The splash of oars indicated that a boat was pulling round the pier.

Wyndham's arm struck a cross-bar and next moment something caught his

leg, but he went clear and, dragging Chisholm with him, drifted into the

moonlight. He felt safe now; all they need do was to wait until the boat

arrived. They were a hundred yards from the pier when she came up and

Marston leaned over the bow.

"Let me have him," he said. "Back her and sit steady, Tom."

Wyndham knew he could trust Bob and let Chisholm go. Marston dragged him

on board and then balanced the boat while Wyndham lifted himself over

the stern. Chisholm did not seem much the worse, for he began to squeeze

the water from his clothes and laughed.

"Trouble was, the punt I jumped for wasn't there," he said. "Imagine I

owe you something, Wyndham. The other fellows couldn't have got me

while I stuck to the brace, and if I'd let go, I'd have gone under the

irons."

"That's all right!" Wyndham remarked. "You'll look before you jump

another time."

They put Chisholm on board a steam yacht and when they reached _Red

Rose_ Marston said, "It was lucky for Jack you were about. We couldn't

have got in between the braces with the punt."

"It was a stroke of luck for both of us," Wyndham replied with a laugh.

CHAPTER III

CHISHOLM'S PERSUASION

Commodore Chisholm sat in his smoking-room and knitted his brows while

Wyndham talked. The room was small and plainly furnished and the books

on the shelves were all about the sea; narratives of old explorers'

voyages, works on naval tactics, and yacht registers. Wyndham spoke fast

and with marked eagerness, and when he was moved he had a strange power

of persuasion, but now and then Chisholm frowned. Although he knew he

must give way, he hesitated. There was something romantic and, so to

speak, exotic, about Wyndham, and Chisholm liked sober English calm.

For all that, he loved his daughter, whom he had long indulged, and knew

her mind. He had only two children, Jack and Flora, and his wife was

dead. Chisholm had loved her well and married rather late. It was for

her sake and because his pay was small he left the navy and took a post

in the service of a public navigation board. Although he held his navy

rank he was generally given his yachting title, the "Commodore." He was

scrupulously just, frank, and rather slow; a man at whom his friends

sometimes smiled but always trusted. Now he frankly wished his daughter

had chosen another lover. It was not that he disliked the fellow; he

knew his family history and what business men thought about Wyndham

Brothers. Still, it looked as if Flora was satisfied.

"You ask me rather a hard thing," he remarked when Wyndham stopped.

"However, if Flora agrees, I suppose I cannot refuse. It's obvious I owe

you much."

"You mean my pulling Jack out of the water? I don't want to urge this.

It was really nothing, and the lad swims well."

"There is some risk in trying to swim through a net of iron rods when a

four-knot current runs through the holes; as I expect you knew when you

plunged. Besides, it's plain Jack was excited and a little off his

balance. The others went for a punt; you saw the real danger and steered

him through."

Wyndham imagined Chisholm was struggling with his prejudices and trying

to be just. He had a generous vein and the Commodore's honesty moved

him.

"My strongest argument is that I love Flora," he declared.

"It counts for much," said Chisholm, who felt his sincerity. "Still,

there are other matters one must talk about."

"That is so, sir," Wyndham agreed. "Well, I know I'm asking much and I'm

handicapped. I'm poor; when I took the family business I took a load of

debt and some distrust. We're not a conventional lot; we have long been

reckless and adventurous."

He stopped for a moment, and then, while Chisholm approved his

frankness, went on: "All the same, I'm young; the house's fortunes can

be mended and its credit made good, and I have an object for putting my

heart into the job. It will be something of a struggle, sir, but I've

got a fighting chance, and with Flora's help I feel I'm going to win."

"How do you propose to mend the house's fortunes?" Chisholm asked.

"For a start, I've planned to visit our factories abroad, study our

trade on the spot, and turn out incompetent agents. I'll begin in West

Africa and then cross to the Caribbean. I expect to use our trading

schooner."

Chisholm looked up, rather quickly, and Wyndham saw his interest was

roused. When one talked about boats the Commodore was keen, and

Wyndham's voyage was, so to speak, safe ground.

"It's a long run," Chisholm remarked.

"The slavers' road, sir," said Wyndham, who meant to lead him on. "A

slow beat against the Guinea current until one clears the windward ports

and works up to the Pambier; and then a fast reach across open water in

the North-East Trades. The early adventurers used smaller boats than

mine."

"They pushed off from the Azores and Canaries, north of your track, and

carried the North-Easter farther across. If you get to leeward, you'll

strike the equatorial calms. But what about your boat?"

"She's an old ninety-ton yacht, the _Columbine_, and was rather famous

once."

"_Columbine_?" said Chisholm, who took down a yacht register. "Here she

is! Good builders, men who stuck to oak and teak. But she's thirty years

old."

Wyndham smiled. The Commodore was getting keen; he was as enthusiastic

as a boy when he talked about the sea.

"I understand she's pretty sound and I must use the tools I've got. Her

draught is light. We can cross river bars and get into shallow lagoons.

Our factories stand by the mangrove creeks the slavers haunted.

Wyndhams' were slavers long since."

"An old house!" said Chisholm. "Your folks were pioneers. There's

something in a long record; habits and characteristics go with the blood

of an old stock."

"Sometimes that has drawbacks, sir," Wyndham remarked.

Chisholm did not follow him and Wyndham saw he was musing about the

romance of the sea.

"But what about your crew?" the Commodore asked.

"I expect to keep the Liberian Krooboys now on board. A half-tamed,

reckless lot, but every Krooboy's a sailor."

"I know; fine stuff, but needs management," Chisholm agreed. "I was on

patrol along the Guinea coast--a long time since. Blazing sun, roaring

bars, steaming mangrove swamps, and sickness. For all that, there's a

fascination you get nowhere else, unless it's on the Caribbean and coast

of Brazil. The world's alike on the lines of latitude and man's morals

follow the parallels." He paused with a dreamy look and then resumed:

"I'm getting old and have my duty; but if I could, I'd go with you."

For a time they talked about the voyage, and then, with a

half-embarrassed smile, Chisholm pulled himself up. "I'm forgetting.

There are things I ought to ask----"

Wyndham told him how much money he had, and when Chisholm looked

thoughtful, went on: "I don't expect your consent to our marrying yet.

It's not long since I took control of the business and much depends on

the arrangements I hope to make at our factories. Things will look

better when I come back."

"It's possible. But you do not know."

"I really do know, sir," Wyndham declared. "You can make my ability to

put things straight a stipulation, if you like. I'm willing to be

tested. I feel I can't fail."

Chisholm studied him for a moment or two. Wyndham's eyes sparkled; he

looked strangely forceful and resolute, and Chisholm thought he

understood why Flora had been carried away. The fellow was handsome and

romantic. Besides, he was a fine sailor, and Chisholm knew his pluck.

"Very well," he said. "We'll let it go like that. The wedding must wait

until you come back, but I wish you luck."

Wyndham thanked him and when he went off Chisholm pondered. Perhaps he

had agreed rather weakly; he had meant to be firmer, but Wyndham had led

him to talk about his voyage. Anyhow, the fellow had charm. It was hard

to refuse him and Chisholm had seen he was sincere. By and by he got up

and lighted his pipe. The thing was done with and he had given his

consent. Somehow he had been persuaded and after all if Flora was

satisfied----

Chisholm had not stipulated that nobody should be told and Flora's

friends had much to talk about. Mabel Hilliard was disturbed, and when

Marston came to her mother's house one evening took him to the garden.

"Bob," she said, "I suppose you know Wyndham is going to marry Flora?"

"I do know," said Marston. "In fact, I approve. Flora is nearly the

nicest girl I've met. However, I imagine you're not satisfied."

"I am not. Flora has been my friend since we were children. I am very

fond of her and think she is quite the nicest girl you have met."

"Bar one!" Marston interposed.

Mabel smiled. "Oh, well, I expect your judgment's biased, Bob. But let

me go on, although it's rather awkward ground. Wyndham has charm, he's

picturesque; something of the gentleman-adventurer type. I think that's

what I mean."

"But you don't like the type? I thought it appealed to a girl's

imagination. Anyhow, although we're getting conventionalized, there are

gentlemen-adventurers and we have jobs for them yet."

"I am not romantic," Mabel replied, with a twinkling glance. "I like

sober men, even if they're sometimes slow; men who keep a promise but

don't protest much. One doesn't want to be dazzled. A steady light is

enough."

Marston was silent for a moment or two. Mabel's trust moved him and he

was half embarrassed. Then he said: "There's a remark of yours I can't

let go. No ground you think you ought to venture on is awkward to us.

Very well. You don't approve Harry's marrying Flora, but what line d'you

want me to take? I can't give him up and you're not going to give up

your friend. It wouldn't be like you."

"I want you to stick to him closer than before. Flora and he may need us

both. One feels that Wyndham's unstable, and you make good ballast,

Bob."

"Well, I suppose I'm heavy enough and you have given me an easy job.

It's curious, but not long since I told Harry I'd see him out if he

wanted help and yesterday he hinted he'd like a partner for his voyage

South. In a way, of course, I don't want to go."

Mabel hid her disturbance and mused. She was modern and sometimes

frivolous, but she was very staunch and loved two people well. She did

not want Bob to go and yet she thought he ought. Mabel had an

instinctive distrust for Wyndham, although she liked him. She felt that

with his temperament he would run risks in the South and he must be

protected, for Flora's sake. Flora had promised to marry Wyndham and

Mabel knew she would keep her word. Well, sober, honest Bob, who was

really cleverer than people thought, was the man to take care of him.

"If Wyndham urges it, I must let you go," she said.

Marston gave her a steady glance, and nodded.

"I understand. Of course, I think your notion's ridiculous. Harry

doesn't need a fellow like me, but you mean well. Although, in one way,

I'd frankly like the trip, in another I'd much sooner stay."

"I know," said Mabel. "You're a dear, Bob."

Then she got up, smiling, and advanced to meet Chisholm and Flora, who

came up the garden path.

Wyndham urged Marston to go with him, and a week or two afterwards Flora

and Mabel stood on the deck of a paddle tug crossing a busy river mouth.

The day was dull and a haze of smoke from two towns hung about the long

rows of warehouses and massive river walls. Out in the stream, a small

steamer with a black funnel and a row of white deckhouses moved seawards

with the tide. The figures grouped along her rail got indistinct, but

Flora's eyes were fixed upon two that stood away from the rest, until

they faded. Then the African boat vanished behind the towering hull of

an anchored liner.

Flora turned and lowered her veil, for her eyes were wet. Chisholm was

on board the tug, but he was some distance off. Mabel was near, and her

look was strained.

"In a way, it's only a long yachting trip," the latter remarked.

"No," said Flora; "we both know it is not. It's a rash adventure; Harry

is going South, as his people all have gone, and some did not come

back."

"Of course he'll come back! Travel's safe and easy now. They'll have no

adventures, except perhaps, at sea."

"I'm not afraid of the sea," Flora said in a quiet voice. "It's the

tropic coast; the big muddy rivers that get lost in the forest, and the

dark lagoons among the mangrove swamps. The country's insidious; its

influence is strong."

Mabel forced a smile. She thought Flora was not disturbed about the

physical dangers, such as fever and shipwreck. It looked as if she knew

her lover.

"Anyhow, Bob is going with Harry, and Bob is not romantic," she

remarked. "In fact, he's the steadiest, most matter-of-fact man I know.

Nothing excites Bob much. It's very hard to carry him away."

Flora gave her a grateful look. Since she must not criticize Harry, they

could not be altogether frank, but she saw Mabel understood. The men

they loved had very different temperaments, and Bob would be a useful

counterbalance. He was sober and practical: one could trust him. It was

hard to own that, in a sense, she could not trust Harry. He was rash,

and Flora did not like the stories about the Wyndhams who had not come

back. However, Bob was going, and she imagined she owed Mabel much.

"I like Bob," she said. "I expect it cost you something to send him with

Harry."

"He wanted to go."

Flora put her hand in the other's arm. "But you might have stopped him."

"He's Harry's friend," said Mabel. "I am yours. After all, that counts

for something, but we won't talk about it now. Your promising to marry

Harry has drawn us closer. It's an extra tie, because all Bob's friends

are mine."

The tug's whistle shrieked as she swung across the tide to the landing

stage and Flora looked down the river. In the distance, where granite

walls and warehouses got small and indistinct, the African boat melted

into the smoke and mist. Flora felt strangely forlorn and half afraid.

CHAPTER IV

THE MAN WHO VANISHED

Moonlight glittered on the West African river and it was very hot; the

air was heavy, humid, and tainted by miasmatic vapors. Inside the lonely

factory, moisture dripped from the beams and the big bare room that

opened on the veranda smelt of mildew. Across the river, tangled

mangroves loomed through drifting mist that hid the banks of mud about

their long, arched roots. Wyndham's schooner, _Columbine_, rode in

midstream, her tall masts and the graceful sweep of her rail cutting

black against the silver light. Somebody on board was singing a Kroo

paddling song with a strange monotonous air. In the distance one heard

the rumble of heavy surf.

The factory was old and ruinous and the agent's hair was going white. He

sat opposite Wyndham, at the end of a table about which documents were

scattered; a cocktail jug and some glasses occupied the middle. Ellams

was haggard and his skin was a jaundiced yellow. Marston lounged in a

deck chair, with the perspiration running down his face, and smoked a

cigarette.

"I think I have told you all you want to know, and I'm willing to give

up my post," Ellams remarked. "Indeed, I'm beginning to feel I'm too old

for the job. Few white men have lived as long in the fever swamps; as a

rule an agent's run was very short when I first came out. We didn't

bother about mosquitoes then. The tropical-diseases people hadn't

discovered the mischievous habits of _anopheles_."

"You were here with my uncle, I think?" said Wyndham.

"I was with him for a year or two," Ellams answered, in a reminiscent

tone. "A strange man, in some ways! I expect it's long since you saw

him?"

"He came to England when I was a boy."

Ellams smiled. "When I saw you cross the compound, I thought Rupert

Wyndham had come back. Wait a moment; I have his portrait."

He brought a faded and mildewed photograph. Wyndham studied it, without

speaking, and then gave it to Marston, who made a little gesture of

surprise. He imagined Rupert Wyndham was about his comrade's age when

the portrait was taken, and the likeness was strange. There was in both

faces a hint of recklessness and unrest, although the hint was plainer

in the portrait. It indicated that Rupert would venture much and take

paths sober men did not tread. Somehow it disturbed Marston.

"I suppose you know he vanished in the West Indies?" Wyndham remarked.

"Yes," said Ellams quietly. "I half expected something like this----"

"Ah!" said Wyndham. "Well, we've done with business for to-night. Tell

me about my uncle."

Ellams drained his glass and Marston noted that his hand shook. The man

had obviously suffered much from ague and fever.

"Rupert Wyndham was here before me," Ellams began. "Procter was agent

when he arrived and Procter had got some native habits. That's a risk

men who indulge their curiosity run in Africa. There's danger of

forgetting one is white. I imagine it was unlucky Rupert began with

Procter; his was a strange, adventurous temperament----"

"I'm told I have some of Rupert's characteristics," Wyndham remarked.

"But go on."

"When your uncle came out, there was no rule but the negro headman's.

British authority stopped a few miles from the outpost stockade, and

traders made their own laws; they lived and drank hard. In some ways,

things are not very different yet. We kill mosquitoes and dig drains,

but Africa doesn't change.

"Well, Procter had gone the way some white men go, and when he died your

uncle got a jar. Rupert had only known England and he was young, but I

don't mean he was daunted. Rather he lost his balance and started on a

line he ought to have left alone. Sometimes he talked about the thing. I

suspect he knew the Leopards killed Procter."

"The _Leopards_?" Marston interrupted.

"The Ghost Leopards, a secret society. In this country, there are a

number, run by the Ju-Ju priests. They're supposed to use magic, but

they're a power in native politics and have given the British government

trouble. Perhaps the Leopards are the strongest. The bushmen believe

they can take the form of the animals, and when they like make

themselves invisible. Anyhow, the headman they don't approve seldom

rules very long----"

Ellams paused for a few moments and resumed: "It was a hot night when

Rupert Wyndham thought he heard Procter call. He said his voice was

choked and faint. He got up; he occupied the room yonder--" Ellams

indicated a door opposite and went on: "There was no light, but the moon

shone through the window behind us. Rupert had only been awake a few

moments and heard nothing but the faint cry. He ran out in his pyjamas

and found Procter on the floor. Procter's body was warm, but when

Wyndham tried to lift him he saw he was dead. He lay across the cracked

board where Mr. Marston sits."

Marston half-consciously pushed back his chair. "But what indicated the

Leopards?"

"There were strange marks on Procter's throat. Wyndham thought they

looked like the marks of claws."

Marston pondered while Ellams filled his glass. He pictured the huddled

figure in pyjamas lying across the rotten boards, and the marks on the

throat. As a rule his nerve was good, but the picture daunted him and he

did not like his comrade's strange, fixed look. In a sense, the story

was ridiculous; that is, it would have looked ridiculous in England, but

Africa was different. Theatrical tragedy was not strange there, and he

did not think Ellams had exaggerated much.

"Well," said the latter, "in the morning Wyndham found the factory boys

had gone. He was alone with Procter and could get no help; besides, he

had a dose of fever and when malaria grips you, your imagination works.

He said perhaps the worst was the quietness and the buzzing of the

flies. He dug a grave, but could not get Procter down the steps; fever

makes one very limp, you know. Well, he sat there all day, keeping the

flies off Procter, and in the evening a Millers' launch came up stream."

"A ghastly day!" said Marston, but Wyndham signed to Ellams.

"You haven't told it all. Go on."

"I'm an old servant and you're the head of the house," Ellams replied

meaningly. "Well, I think that day left a mark on Rupert Wyndham. When I

arrived he was moody and often brooded, but it looked as if he had a

talent for managing the bushmen. They seemed to understand him and the

business was growing fast. He began to go up river, although I imagine

no other trader had reached the native market then. It was good for

business; our oil was first quality and we got stuff, skins and

sometimes ivory, Millers' and the Association couldn't buy. Besides,

there were bits of pottery, brass, and silver work, the Fulah brought

across the desert. Wyndham said the patterns were Sarascenic and the

stuff was hundreds of years old. The house knew where to sell the goods

at home. Once or twice we got Aggri beads."

"I didn't know about that," Wyndham remarked and turned to Marston. "In

Africa, Aggri beads are worth almost any price you like to ask. We can't

imitate them and don't know how they are made. It's very rare for a

negro headman to let an Aggri go."

Ellams made a sign of agreement, and gave Wyndham an apologetic glance.

"You see what this implies?"

"I think I see. My uncle was getting native habits; he was getting an

influence----"

"He stopped away from the factory longer. Men with tattoo marks I

didn't know came down and talked to him, and sometimes brought no trade.

I thought he ran risks and warned him, but he laughed. It went on, and

we were getting rich when the change began. Our trade did not fall off

much, but one felt a difference----"

Ellams paused, and looked thoughtful when he resumed: "I can't

altogether make things plain; there was a feeling of insecurity, and

Wyndham's moodiness got worse. He did not go away so much, and locked

his room door at night. I think he did not sleep and took some draught;

not drugs white men use, but stuff the negroes make. When he did sleep,

he was strangely hard to rouse. He was cool and as nearly fearless as

any man I knew, but he began to look haggard and start at unexpected

sounds. One morning I could not wake him and went round to the veranda

window. Wyndham was fast asleep and a gun lay across his bed. He was a

good shot with a pistol, but this was a heavy duck-gun that threw an

ounce and a quarter of shot. Well, I was getting nervy, and the factory

boys would not stop--it looked as if they knew something was wrong. I

began to wonder how long Wyndham could keep it up."

The others were quiet when Ellams reached for the cocktail jug and

finding it empty filled his pipe. Marston had spent some weeks on the

African coast and sympathized with the agent. When one had seen the

country and breathed the foul miasma that saps the white man's strength,

one could understand the strain Ellams talked about. It was a daunting

country and the gloom of its steamy forests was the shadow of death.

"After all," said Ellams, "there was no theatrical climax. One day a

launch brought us a cablegram. Wyndham was wanted at home, the ebb tide

was running and a mailboat was due to call at Takana lagoon. In an hour

_Columbine_ dropped down stream and my notion is it was a relief to

Wyndham the cablegram arrived. If it had not arrived, he would have

stayed. He was that kind of man."

"Had you trouble afterwards?" Marston asked.

"I had not. It was as if a shadow had melted. The strain had gone."

"Then it looks as if my uncle, alone, were threatened." Wyndham

remarked.

Ellams nodded. "Yes. I think it was, so to speak, a personal thing. For

all that, our trade got slack and has not since touched the mark it

reached in your uncle's time. Well, I think that's all, and perhaps I

have talked too much."

"If you'll mix another cocktail, we'll go to bed," Wyndham replied and

when, a few minutes afterwards, he went to his room stopped at the door.

"This is where Rupert Wyndham slept with the gun beside him, I suppose?"

he said. "I wonder what he dreamed about!"

For some time Marston did not sleep. As a rule, he did not indulge his

imagination, but he had been disturbed by the agent's tale and there

were strange noises. Some he thought were made by cracking boards and

falling damp; others puzzled him and he found them daunting in the dark.

They were like footsteps, as if somebody stole about the rooms. Marston

had had enough of Africa and yet he owned the country had a mysterious

charm. White men stayed, knowing the risk they ran and without much

hope of money reward, until they died of fever or their minds got

deranged. The latter happened now and then. In order to keep sane, one

must concentrate on one's business and refuse to speculate about the

secret life of the bush. After all, there was much to speculate

about----

Marston pulled himself up. He was a sober white man and had nothing to

do with the negro's fantastic superstitions. Magic and witchcraft were

ridiculous, but in a country where they were a ruling force it was not

easy to laugh. He thought Rupert Wyndham had made rash experiments and

had dared too much, and although this was perhaps not important, Harry

had his uncle's temperament. The trouble was there. Still they would

leave the river soon and it would be a relief to go to sea. The sea was

clean and bracing.

Three or four days afterwards _Columbine_ dropped down stream on the

ebb. A big naked Krooboy held the wheel, another in the fore-channels

swung the lead and called the depth in a musical voice. The white

factory got indistinct and melted into the swamps, the puffs of wind

were fresher, and Marston was conscious of a keen satisfaction as the

dreary mangroves slipped astern and yellow sand and lines of foam came

into view ahead.

Wyndham, smoking a cigarette, leaned against the rail. He wore white

duck without a crease and a big pale-gray hat. Marston thought he looked

very English, with his keen blue eyes, light hair, and red skin, but his

gaze was contemplative.

"You're not sorry to get away?" he presently remarked. "I wonder

whether Rupert Wyndham was."

"I wonder why he stayed," said Marston. "Unless, of course, he was

earning money."

"A plausible explanation, but I'm not sure it's good," Wyndham replied

with a smile. "The head of our house was often extravagant but never, I

think, a miser. We're not a greedy lot."

"You were traders; the object of trading is to get rich."

"I doubt if this was my uncle's, or some of my other ancestors' object,

I think they valued money for what it would buy. Anyhow, they seldom

kept it long."

"Since most of us value money for what it will buy, I don't understand,"

Marston rejoined.

"You bought a country house, a sober sportsman's life, and the liking of

honest friends. Well, your investments were sound, but there are men of

other temperaments they mightn't satisfy. I don't think they would have

satisfied Rupert Wyndham."

"Then what did he expect to get in the swamps?"

"I don't know," said Wyndham, with a curious smile. "Perhaps strange

experiences; perhaps knowledge and power. I imagine he knew he must buy

them and was willing to pay."

"Power over tattooed bushmen!" Marston exclaimed. "What could they teach

him?"

"Things we have begun to experiment with and their Ju-Ju men knew long

since. The white man who knows the meaning of their tattoo marks has

gone some distance; they're not all tribal signs. However, I don't know

what Rupert Wyndham learned and it looks as if I shall not find out.

Our object's very matter of fact; to earn as much money as possible."

"That is so. I mean to stick to it," said Marston firmly.

Wyndham laughed. "I expect you mean to see I take your line! Well, it's

a good line. But we're getting near the bar. Suppose you fetch the

chart?"

CHAPTER V

THE TORNADO

The night was hot and nearly calm, and Marston, sitting on the cabin

skylight, languidly looked about. A Krooboy held the wheel, and his dark

figure cut against the phosphorescent sea. _Columbine_'s bulwarks were

low and when she rolled the long, smooth swell ran level with their top.

A dim glow came from the compass binnacle, but the schooner was

close-hauled and the Kroo steered by the faint strain on the helm. The

wind was light and baffling and _Columbine_ beat against it as she

worked along the coast.

She carried all her canvas and her high gaff-topsail swung rhythmically

across the sky, shutting out the stars. Her dark mainsail looked very

big and every now and then shook down a shower of dew as its slack

curves swelled. A small moon touched the tops of the undulations with

silver light, and when the bows went down the foam that leaped about the

planks glimmered with green and gold. Booms and blocks rattled and

timbers groaned.

Marston could not see the land, which was hidden by the sour, hot mist

that at sunset rolls off the African coast. He did not want to see it;

he hoped he had done with Africa, but he doubted. _Columbine_ was on the

track the keels of the old slavers plowed, and he felt that the shadow

of the dark country might follow him across the sea. Long since, Africa

had peopled South America and the West Indies; Wyndham's ancestors had

helped in that. One found mangrove swamps, fever, and negro superstition

on the Caribbean coast, and it was significant that Rupert Wyndham had

vanished there. The trouble was Harry had inherited something of his

uncle's temperament. All the same, Marston had undertaken to stand by

him and meant to do so.

The breeze got lighter, the wet canvas flapped, and _Columbine_ hardly

made steerage way. She rolled until her bulwarks touched the water and

threw off fiery foam. One could not stand on her slanted deck, and

blocks and spars made a hideous din. In the distance, the roar of surf

rose and fell with a measured beat. Somewhere in the mist the big

combers crashed upon a hammered beach. It did not matter if there was

wind or not; the white band of surf had fringed the coast since the

world was young.

Marston found his watch dreary. There was nothing to do; nothing, that

he could see, threatened, and the scattered light clouds hardly moved

across the sky. He was filling his pipe when he heard a step and saw

Wyndham by the wheel. He knew him by his white duck; the negro crew did

not wear much clothes.

"Hallo!" he said. "My watch is not up."

"I was awake," Wyndham replied. "Felt I ought to get on deck. The glass

is falling."

"Did you feel you ought to come _after_ you noted this?"

"Before," said Wyndham, dryly. "I didn't know the glass had dropped

until I got a light, but it looks as if I might have stayed below.

However, since I have turned out, we'll haul down the main-topsail."

He gave an order and two Krooboys got to work. There was no obvious

reason for lowering the sail, but when Wyndham ordered the negroes

obeyed. Although they grinned with frank good-humor when Marston talked

to them, he knew he did not share Wyndham's authority. Yet Harry was not

harsh.

When the sail was lowered Wyndham looked about. Some of the scattered

clouds had rolled together and the sky was black over the land. One

could scarcely feel the light wind, but the surf had got louder. Its

roar came out of the dark as if heavy trains were running along the

coast.

"It looks ridiculous, particularly since I'd like to edge her farther

off the beach, but I think we'll stow the mainsail and fore-staysail,"

Wyndham remarked.

Marston agreed. Although he could see no grounds for shortening sail, he

trusted Wyndham's judgment, and the Krooboys got to work again. The

ropes, however, were stiff and swollen with the dew, and the mainsail

came down slowly. The heavy folds of canvas caught between the

topping-lifts; the gaff-jaws jambed on the mast. Wyndham sent a man

aloft to sit upon and ride down the spar, but this did not help much,

and the boom along the foot of the sail lurched with violent jerks.

Blocks banged and loose ropes whipped across the deck. The sweat ran

down Marston's face; he wanted to finish the job. For one thing,

_Columbine_ was unmanageable while the half-lowered canvas flapped

about.

Stopping a moment for breath, he glanced over the rail. The long swell

sparkled with small points of light that coalesced in sheets of green

flame when the undulations broke against the schooner's side. The deck

was spangled with luminous patches by the splashes and the wake that

trailed astern was bright. _Columbine_ stole through the water although

the wind had nearly gone. It was not worth while to bring her head-to

when they shortened sail.

Then the helmsman shouted and Marston felt one side of his face and body

cool. The loose canvas flapped noisily. Its folds shook out and swelled,

and Marston seized a rope. His skin prickled; he felt a strange tension

and a feverish desire to drag down the sticking gaff. A few moments

afterwards, something flickered behind the sail and a peal of thunder

drowned the noise on board. When it died away, rolling hull, slanted

masts, and the figures of the men stood out, wonderfully sharp, against

a dazzling blaze that vanished and left bewildering dark. The next peal

of thunder deafened Marston, who thought Wyndham shouted but heard no

words. This did not matter, because he knew they must secure the sail

before the tornado broke, and he pulled at the downhaul. He could not

hear the wind for the thunder, but it had begun to blow.

The sail swelled between the confining ropes, there was a noise on one

side of the yacht, water foamed along the planks, and she began to

swing. It looked as if the steersman were putting up the helm. The peak

of the gaff was nearly down; with another good pull they could seize it

and lash it to the boom. Then a dazzling flash touched the deck. Marston

saw Wyndham run aft and push the Kroo from the wheel, but this was the

last he saw clearly for sometime. He imagined the fellow had meant to

run the yacht off before the squall; one could ease the strain of a

sudden blast like that, but if the squall lasted, they could not shorten

sail while she was before the wind. Now she was coming round. Wyndham

had put the helm down. It looked as if he were too late.

The tornado broke upon her side and she went over until her lee rail was

in the sea. There was a noise like a thunder-clap forward as a sail blew

away; Marston thought it was the jib. He could see nothing. It had got

impenetrably dark, but he had a vague notion that water rushed along the

deck and the mainsail had broken loose and blown out between the ropes.

Unless they could master it, the mast would go. He heard another report

forward and thought somebody had loosed the staysail halyards and the

sail had blown to rags. Although his eyes were useless, he knew what was

going on.

But they must secure the main gaff, and clutching at the boom above his

head, he swung himself up and worked along to its outer end, which

stretched over the stern. A footrope ran below the spar; one could

balance oneself by its help and he vaguely distinguished somebody close

by. It was, no doubt, Wyndham, because his clothes looked white. There

was no use in shouting. The uproar drowned one's voice; besides, their

job was plain. They must get a rope round the end of the gaff and lash

it fast.

Marston's waist was on the boom; his feet stuck out behind him, braced

against the rope. In front there was a dark gulf. This was, no doubt,

the hollow of the sail, and the indistinct slanting line above was the

gaff. He threw a rope across the latter, but the end did not drop, so

that he could seize it under the sail; the wind blew it out, straight

and tight. He tried again, farther aft, jostling against the figure that

looked faintly white, and leaning down across the boom, caught the end

of the rope. The other man helped him and when they had got a loop round

the end of the gaff he stopped for breath. He was shaky after the

effort, his heart thumped painfully, and his chest rose and fell. He

imagined other men were on the boom, but he and his companion were all

that mattered. They must lash the peak down before the sail blew out

again. When this was done, the others could master the distended folds.

The wet rope tore his hands; he felt them get slippery with blood, but

he held on and the man beside him helped. Marston knew he was not a

Kroo. The Kroos were bold sailors, but their resolution had a limit.

When a job looked hopeless they gave up; the man beside Marston was

another type. While there was breath in his body he would stick to his

task. The sail must be conquered.

Lightning played about them and Marston's eyes were dazzled by the

changes from intolerable glare to dark. He trusted to the feel of things

and his seaman's knowledge of what was happening. He did not think, but

worked half-consciously. They made the gaff fast, and then something

broke and the heavy boom swung out over the sea. The jerk threw

Marston's feet from the rope and his body began to slip off the boom. He

saw fiery foam below, but as he braced himself for the plunge the next

man seized him. It looked as if they must both slip off, for Marston

found no hold for his hands on the smooth, wet spar. Perhaps the

pressure of the wind saved them by forcing their limp bodies against

the boom, for the other man steadied Marston until his foot touched the

rope again.

For a moment or two they hung on, not daring to move and waiting until

they gathered strength. Then they carefully worked their way to the

inner end of the spar and dropped, exhausted, on the deck. There was

however, no rest for them. The massive boom must be dragged back and

dropped into its crutch. It could not be left to lurch about and smash

all it struck. Marston was vaguely conscious that a gang of Krooboys ran

to the mainsheet and Wyndham directed their efforts. He, himself, could

do no more, and he leaned against the rail, breathing hard.

As his exhaustion vanished he began to note things. The men had secured

the boom; but the schooner's bows looked bare and he remembered the jibs

had blown away. The foresail was torn and half-lowered, and the gaff at

its head was jambed. The torn canvas kept the vessel from falling off

the wind, but would not bring her up enough for her to lie to. Masts and

deck were horribly slanted, the windward bulwark was hove high up, and

luminous spray drove across its top. It looked as if she were going over

and there was an appalling din, for the scream of the tornado pierced

the thunder.

Then lightning enveloped the yacht and ran along the water. For an

instant Marston saw Wyndham's white figure at the wheel, and then he

groped his way towards him in the puzzling dark. Harry would need help,

for Marston knew what he meant to do. Since _Columbine_ would not come

up, he was going to run her off before the wind in order to ease the

horrible pressure that bore her down. The trouble was, the tornado blew

from sea, and land was near. Marston seized the wheel, and using all his

strength, helped Wyndham to pull it round. She felt her rudder and began

to swing, lifting her lee rail out of the water. Then she came nearly

upright with a jerk, and although the tornado was deafening, Marston

thought he heard the water roar as it leaped against her bows.

The speed she made lifted her forward and a white wave curled abreast of

the rigging. She was going like a train and Marston sweated and gasped

as he helped at the wheel. There was nothing to do but let her run,

although it was obvious she could not run long. A glance at the lighted

compass indicated that she was heading for the land, where angry surf

beat upon an inhospitable beach. If they tried to bring her round, the

masts would go and she might capsize.

She drove on and presently the thunder stopped. Rain that fell in sheets

swept the deck and beat their clothes against their skin. One heard

nothing but the roar of the deluge and the darkness could not be

pierced. After a few minutes Marston felt the strain on the wheel get

easier and lost the sense of speed. The deck did not seem to be lifted

forward and he thought the bows had resumed their proper level. When he

turned his head the rain no longer lashed his face, the foresail

flapped, and the straining, rattling noises began again. It looked as if

the wind had suddenly got light.

"Let's bring her round," he shouted and heard his voice hoarse and loud.

Wyndham signed agreement, they turned the wheel, and the crew ran about

the deck. She came round and a few minutes afterwards headed out to sea,

lurching slowly across the swell that now rolled and broke with crests

of foam. The sky had cleared, but not far off an ominous rumble came out

of the gloom astern.

"We'll wait for daybreak before we make sail," Wyndham remarked. "You

can get below. My watch has begun."

"I suppose you were with me on the boom?"

"I was on the boom," said Wyndham. "Somebody else was near."

"Do you imply you didn't know whom it was when you held me up?"

"Oh, well," said Wyndham, laughing, "it's not important. Suppose I had

grabbed a Krooboy who was falling? Do you imagine I ought to have let

him go? Anyhow, we helped each other. I don't expect I'd have reached

the deck if I had been alone."

Marston said no more. One felt some reserve when one talked about things

like that. He looked to windward, and seeing the night was calm, went

below.

CHAPTER VI

THE MIDDLE PASSAGE

Marston lounged with languid satisfaction on a locker in the stern

cabin. He had borne some strain and his body felt strangely slack

although his brain was active. The cabin was small and very plain,

because the yacht had been altered below decks when she was fitted for

carrying cargo. Moisture trickled down the matchboarded ceiling, big

warm drops fell from the beams, and a brass lamp swung about as she

rolled. Marston, however, knew this was an illusion; the beams moved but

the lamp was still.

There were confused noises. Water washed about inside the lurching hull,

although a sharp clank overhead indicated that somebody was occupied at

the pump; water gurgled, with a noise like rolling gravel, outside the

planks. Timbers groaned, a seam in the matchboarding opened and shut,

and a dull concussion shook the boat when her bows plunged into the

swell. The swell was high, although the wind had dropped. Marston knew

these noises and found them soothing. They belonged to the sea, and he

loved the sea, although he had not long since fought it for his life.

Now the strain was over, he felt the struggle with the tornado had

braced and steadied him.

In the tropics, it was the land he did not like. Perhaps he was getting

morbid, for after all he had not seen much of the African coast and yet

it frankly daunted him. His confused recollections were like a bad

dream; muddy lagoons surrounded by dreary mangroves from which the

miasma stole at night, hot and steamy forests where mysterious dangers

lurked, and rotting damp factories from which the burning sun could not

drive the shadow that weighed the white man down. Marston was not

imaginative, but he had felt the gloom.

He pondered about it curiously. The shadow was, so to speak, impalpable;

vague yet sinister. Now and then white men rebelled against it with

noisy revels, but when the liquor was out the gloom crept back and some

drank again until they died. Yet the coast had a subtle charm, against

which it was prudent to steel oneself. The shadow was a reflection of

the deeper gloom in which the naked bushmen moved and served the powers

that rule the dark.

Fever-worn traders declared there were such powers. One heard strange

stories that the men who told them obviously believed. It looked as if

the Ju-Ju magicians were not altogether impostors; they knew things the

white man did not and by this knowledge ruled. Their rule was owned and

firm. Marston had thought it ridiculous, but now he doubted. There was

something behind the hocus-pocus; something that moved one's curiosity

and tempted one to rash experiment. Marston knew this was what he

feared. Harry was rash and had rather felt the fascination than the

gloom.

Marston banished his disturbing thoughts and began to muse about their

struggle with the sail. Harry was a normal, healthy white man then. It

was rather his sailor's instincts than conscious resolution that led

him to keep up the fight when it looked as if he must be thrown off the

boom. He would have been thrown off before he owned he was beaten. One

did things like that at sea, because they must be done, and did not

think them fine. Marston reviewed the fight, remembering his terror when

he slipped and how his confidence returned after Harry seized his arm.

The thought of the lonely plunge had daunted him; it was different when

he knew he would not plunge alone. If Harry and he could not reach the

deck, they would drop into the dark together. That was all, but it meant

much. For one thing, it meant that Marston must go where his comrade

went, although he might not like the path. In the meantime he was tired

and got into his bunk.

When he went on deck in the morning the breeze was fresh and _Columbine_

drove through the water under all plain sail, for they had some spare

canvas on board. The sky was clear and the sun sparkled on the foam that

leaped about the bows and ran astern in a broad white wake. The old boat

was fast and there was something exhilarating in her buoyant lift and

roll. Marston and Wyndham got breakfast under an awning on deck. Wyndham

wore thin white clothes and a silk belt. His skin was burned a dark red

and his keen blue eyes sparkled. One saw the graceful lines of his

muscular figure; he looked alert and virile.

"You're fresh enough this morning," Marston remarked. "My back is sore

and my arms ache. It was a pretty big strain to secure the gaff."

Wyndham laughed. "If the sail had blown away from us, the mast would

have gone and the boat have drifted into the surf."

"I suppose we knew this unconsciously. Anyhow, I didn't argue about the

thing."

"You held on," said Wyndham. "Well, I expect it's an example of an

instinct men developed when they used the old sailing ships. They must

beat the sea or drown, and sometimes the safety of all depended on the

nerve of one. I expect it led to a kind of class-conscientiousness. The

common need produced a code."

"The instinct's good. Somehow, all you learn at sea is good; I mean,

it's morally bracing."

Wyndham smiled and indicated a faint dark line that melted into the

horizon on the starboard hand.

"It's different in Africa, for example?"

"Oh, well," said Marston cautiously, "Africa has drawbacks, but if you

don't get fever and are satisfied to look at things on the surface, you

might stay there sometime and not get much harm."

Wyndham saw Marston meant to warn him and was amused. Bob was rather

obvious, but he was sincere.

"Suppose you're not satisfied with things as they look on the surface

and want to find out what they are beneath?" he asked.

"Then I think you ought to clear out and go back to the North."

"A simple plan! As a rule, your plans are simple. I'm curious, however,

and sometimes like to indulge my curiosity. It's easily excited in

Africa. There is much the white man doesn't know; he's hardly begun to

grasp the negro's point of view."

"The negro has no point of view. He gropes in the dark."

"I doubt it," said Wyndham thoughtfully. "I rather imagine he sees a

light, but perhaps not the light we know. There's a rude order in his

country and men with knowledge rule. The Leopards, the Ghost Crocodiles,

and the other strange societies don't hold power for nothing. Power

that's felt has some foundation."

"You like power," Marston remarked.

Wyndham smiled and looked about while he felt for another cigarette.

_Columbine_, swaying rhythmically to the heave of the swell, drove

through the sparkling water with a shower of spray blowing across her

weather bow. Her tall canvas gleamed against the blue sky. A Krooboy

lounged at the wheel, the most part of his muscular body naked and a

broad blue stripe running down his forehead. Two or three more squatted

in the shade of a sail. At the galley door the cook sang a monotonous

African song. The wire shrouds hummed like harpstrings, striking notes

that changed with the tension as the vessel rolled. There was nothing to

do but lounge and talk and Wyndham's mood was confidential.

"I have not known much power," he said. "In England, power must be

bought. My father was poor but careless; my mother was sternly

conventional. When he died she tried to turn my feet into the regular,

beaten path. I know now she was afraid I would follow my ancestors'

wandering steps. Well, at school, I had the smallest allowance among the

boys, and learned to plot for things my comrades enjoyed. As a rule, I

got the things. I don't know if the effort was good or not, but I was

ambitious and wanted a leading place. Folks like you don't know what it

costs to hold one's ground."

"I expect I got things easily," Marston agreed. "Perhaps this was lucky,

because I've no particular talent."

"You have one talent that is worth all mine," Wyndham rejoined with some

feeling. "People trust you, Bob."

Marston colored, but Wyndham went on: "When I left school and went to

Wyndhams' there was not much change. For the most part, my friends were

rich, and I had a clerk's pay, with a vague understanding that at some

far off time I might be the head of the house. The house was obviously

tottering; I did not think it would stand until I got control. My uncle,

Rupert's brother, would not see. Wyndhams' had stood so long he felt it

was self-supporting and would stand. Well, he was kind, and I'm glad he

died without knowing how near we really were to a fall.

"However, I didn't mean to talk about the house, but rather about my

life when I was a shipping clerk. I had ambition and thought I had

talent; I hated to be left behind by my friends. It cost much planning

to share their amusements, join a good yacht club, and race my boat.

Sportsmen like you don't know the small tricks and shabbiness we others

are forced to use. Well, at length my uncle died and I got control of

the falling house, with its load of debt. I'd long been rash, but the

rashest thing I did was when I fell in love with Flora. Yet she loved

me, and Chisholm, with some reserves, has given his consent. I have got

to satisfy him and with this in view, we're bound for the Caribbean on

board a thirty-year-old yacht."

Marston thought Wyndham did not look daunted. In a sense, his venture

was reckless, but Harry tried, and did, things others thought beyond

their powers. On the whole Marston imagined his boldness was justified.

"If money can help, you know where it can be got," he said.

Wyndham's half-ironical glance softened.

"Thanks, Bob! So far, I haven't gone begging from my friends; but if I

can use your money without much risk, I will borrow. I think you know

this."

"What's mine is yours," Marston remarked and went to the cabin for a

chart, with which he occupied himself.

He studied the chart and sailing directions when he had nothing to do

and was rather surprised that Wyndham did not. It was a long run to the

Caribbean and would be longer if they drifted into the equatorial calms.

Marston had a yacht master's certificate, although he was rather a

seaman than a navigator. He could find his way along the coast by

compass and patent-log, but to steer an ocean course was another thing.

One must be exact when one calculated one's position by the height of

the sun and stars.

For some time they made good progress and then the light wind dropped

and _Columbine_ rolled about in a glassy calm. The swell ran in long

undulations that shone with reflected light, and there was no shade, for

they lowered all sail to save the canvas from burning and chafing. The

sun pierced the awning, and it was intolerably hot. They had reached the

dangerous part of the old slavers' track; the belt of stagnant ocean

where the south wind stopped and the north-east had not begun. The belt

had been marked long since by horrors worse than wreck, for while the

crowded brigs and schooners drifted under the burning sun, fresh water

ran out and white men got crazed with rum while negroes died from

thirst.

Wyndham lounged one morning under the awning after his bath. He wore

silk pyjamas, a red silk belt, and a wide hat of double felt. He looked

cool and Marston thought he harmonized with his surroundings; the

background of dazzling water, the slanted masts that caught the light as

they swung, and the oily black figures of the naked crew. He wondered

whether Harry had inherited something from ancestors who had known the

tragedies of the middle passage. Marston himself was wet with sweat, his

eyes ached, and his head felt full of blood.

"We may drift about for some time," he said, throwing down a book he had

tried to read. "The sailing directions indicate that the Trades are

variable near their southern limit."

"It's a matter of luck," Wyndham agreed, and Marston started because his

comrade's next remark chimed with his thoughts. "When I studied some of

the house's old records I found that two of our brigs vanished in the

calm belt. One wondered how they went. Fire perhaps, or the slaves broke

the hatch at night. Can't you picture their pouring out like ants and

bearing down the drunken crew? The crews did drink; slaving was not a

business for sober men. Hogsheads of rum figure in our old victualing

bills."

He paused and resumed with a hard smile: "Well, it was a devilish trade.

One might speculate whether the responsibility died with the men

engaged in it and vanished with the money they earned. None of the

Wyndhams seem to have kept money long; luck went hard against them. When

they did not squander, misfortune dogged the house."

"Superstition!" Marston exclaimed.

Wyndham laughed. "It's possible, but superstition's common and all men

are not fools. I expect their fantastic imaginings hold a seed of truth.

Perhaps somebody here and there finds the seed and makes it grow."

"In Africa, they water the soil with blood. It's not a white man's

gardening." Marston rejoined and went forward to the bows, but got no

comfort there.

The sea shone like polished steel, heaving in long folds without a

wrinkle on its oily surface. But for the sluggish rise and fall, one

might have imagined no wind had blown since the world was young.

For a week _Columbine_ rolled about, and then one morning faint blue

lines ran across the sea to the north. Gasping and sweating with the

effort, they hoisted sail and sent up the biggest topsail drenched with

salt water. Sometimes it and the light balloon jib filled and although

the lower canvas would not draw, _Columbine_ began to move. One could

not feel her progress, there was no strain on the helm, but silky

ripples left her side and slowly trailed astern.

For all that, she went the wrong way, heading south into the calm, and

they could not bring her round. Her rudder had no grip when they turned

the wheel, and sometimes she stopped for an hour and then crawled on

again. The Krooboys panted in the shade of the shaking sails, and

Marston groaned and swore when he took his glasses and slackly climbed

the rigging. The dark-blue lines were plainer, three or four miles off,

and he thought they marked the edge of the Trade-breeze.

Wyndham alone looked unmoved; he lay in a canvas chair under the awning,

and smoked and seemed to dream. Marston wondered what he dreamed about

and hoped it was Flora. In the afternoon Marston felt he must find some

relief.

"I want to launch a boat and tow her," he said. "There's wind enough not

far off to keep her steering."

Wyndham nodded. "Very well. It's recorded that they towed the

_Providence_ for three days and used up a dozen negroes in the boats,

besides some gallons of rum. The fellow who kept the log was obviously

methodical. However, I want to keep our boys, and you can't tow in the

sun."

"It's unthinkable," Marston agreed. "We'll begin at dark."

CHAPTER VII

THE TOW

At sunset they hoisted out two boats, for wages are low in Africa and

_Columbine_ carried a big crew. Wyndham stopped on board to steer while

Marston went in the gig, and the sun touched the horizon when he began

to uncoil a heavy warp. He was only occupied for a few minutes but when

he had finished it was dark. The relief from the glare was soothing and

the gloom was marked by a mistiness that gave him hope. He knew a faint

haze often follows the North-East Trades.

The Krooboys dipped the oars, and the water glimmered with luminous

spangles under the blades and fell like drops of liquid fire. This was

all the light, except for the sparkle at _Columbine_'s bows as she

slowly forged ahead. She came on, towering above the boats in a vague

dark mass, until she sank with the swell and the tightening rope jerked

them rudely back. On heaving water, towing a large vessel is strenuous

work, for her progress is a series of plunges and one cannot keep an

even strain on the rope.

When they began to row Marston's boat was drawn back under the yacht's

iron martingale. Her bowsprit loomed above it, threatening and big, and

the oars bent as the Kroos drove the boat ahead. In a few moments she

stopped and forged back towards the yacht, but the jerk was less

violent. _Columbine_ was moving faster and the heavy warp worked like a

spring, easing the shock. Marston's business, however, was to tow her

round and when she began to turn he had trouble to keep his boat in

line. The tightening rope rasped across her stern, the gig swerved and

listed over, until it looked as if she would capsize. The oars on one

side were buried deep, the men could not clear them for another stroke,

and the threatening martingale rose and fell close astern.

Marston, when the rope would let him, sculled with a long oar, and

presently the skin peeled from his hands. His throat got parched, sweat

ran down his face and he gasped with straining breath, but it was better

to use his strength than risk the martingale's being driven into his

back. They pulled her round and it was easier afterwards although he

could not relax much. The yacht was stealing through the water, but they

must keep up her speed or the violent jerks would begin again. It was

only possible to rest for a moment on the crest of the swell when the

warp absorbed the backward pull.

A negro began to sing and the rest took up the chorus. The air was

strange and dreary but somehow musical, and Marston imagined it was very

old. He understood the Kroos had sung their paddling chanties long

before the Elizabethan slavers touched the fever-coast. The night was

very calm and dark. The figures of the men were indistinct, but when the

song stopped Marston heard their labored breathing and the regular

splash of oars. They rowed well and he hoped their toil was not wasted.

By daybreak they might reach the edge of the wind, but the fickle

zephyrs might die away and the fiery dawn break across another glassy

calm.

When he was not sculling Marston mused. He was rich and owned it strange

that he was there, laboring in the boat, as the slavers labored when

they towed the _Providence_, two hundred years ago. He wondered why men

went to sea in sailing ships, to bear fatigues nobody endured at home,

to fight for life on slanted yards, and stagger waist-deep about flooded

decks. Yet one went, and sometimes went for no reward. The thing was

puzzling.

After all, the sea had a touch of romance one felt nowhere else. It was

something to brave the middle passage, although one had enough fresh

water and no frenzied slaves on board. Marston thought about the old

brigs--they towed the _Providence_ three days, under the burning tropic

sun. He could picture her. She rode low in the water, with her stone

ballast, and freight of parched humanity packed close on the tween-decks

and in the bottom hold. She had tall masts, for speed was needed, and

the weight aloft would make her plunge and roll. The jerks on the

towline embarrassed the boats, but white men drove the exhausted negroes

with whips and curses until they dropped the oars and died. Yet they

towed her three days.

Marston could not see his watch and wondered how long it was to sunrise.

It was unthinkable they should go on rowing in the heat of day; he was

tired now and remembering the dark ripples alone sustained him. He

thought they had nearly reached the spot where the surface was

disturbed, but the fickle puffs of wind might have dropped. Stopping

sculling for a few moments, he turned his head. His face was wet with

sweat but he felt no coolness on his skin. It was very dark and

ominously calm.

He took up the long oar again, twisting it with bleeding hands and

bracing his legs. They must keep _Columbine_ moving and his business was

to hold the boat straight; trouble with the warp would follow if she

took a sheer. For all that, he could not hold out long. He had taken

life easily and his body revolted from the strain. In fact, he was

beaten now, but it counted for much that the Krooboys rowed. They were

raw savages and he was white. They owned his control, but all the

advantages money could buy for him had gone. Nothing was left but the

primitive strength and stubbornness of human nature. He must not be

beaten; he owed it to the ruling stock from which he sprang, and with a

stern effort he tugged at the oar.

At length, he felt an elusive chill, and wiping his wet face, looked

about. In the east, it was not quite so dark, and when he turned his

head the yacht looked blacker and not so large. Hull and sails were no

longer blurred; their outline was getting sharp, and he noted that the

balloon jib swelled in a gentle curve. One side of his face got cold and

when he began to scull again he thought the strain on the rope was less.

A belt of smoky red spread swiftly along the horizon, he heard the high

gaff topsail flap, booms rattled and then the yacht got quiet. The tow

rope sank and when it tightened there was no jerk. _Columbine_ was

stealing up behind them.

"In oars!" said Marston hoarsely. "Let go the warp!"

The boat drifted back to the schooner and bumped against her side until

somebody caught a trailing rope. Marston with an effort climbed the rail

and dropping on deck saw Wyndham at the wheel.

"Shall we hoist in? The boys are done," he said.

Wyndham nodded. "Day's breaking; it will soon be blazing hot. The sun

may kill the wind, but I don't know. It's a fiery dawn."

Blocks began to rattle and when the first boat swung across the rail

Marston looked about. Broad beams of light stretched across the sky and

the red sun rose out of the sea. He went to a chair under the awning and

threw himself down. He had earned a few minutes' rest, but when they had

gone he did not move and Wyndham smiled as he noted his even breath.

Beckoning a Krooboy, he sent him for a blanket and gently covered the

sleeping man.

Marston was wakened by a lurch that threw him off the chair, and getting

up stiffly he noted the sharp slant of deck. Then he saw foam boil

behind the lee rail and straining curves of canvas that kept their

hollowness when the yacht rolled to windward. She trailed a snowy wake

across the backs of the sparkling seas and her rigging hummed on a high,

piercing note. The sky was blue, but the blue was dim and the sunshine

had lost its dazzling glare. One felt a bracing quality in the breeze.

"Looks as if we had hit the _Trades_," he said. "What's her course?"

"About North, North-west," said Wyndham, who sat on the stern grating

and indicated the Kroo at the wheel. "Bad Dollar is steering by the

wind. I reckoned we had better make some northing while we can. Off our

course, but the _Trades_ are fickle in this latitude. Suppose you get

your sextant. It's close on twelve o'clock."

Marston looked at the nearly vertical sun and laughed.

"I feel as if I'd just gone to sleep," he said and went below.

The breeze freshened and held, _Columbine_ with all plain sail set made

good speed, and they laid off a straight course on the big Atlantic

chart. The risks of the middle passage were left behind. If they were

lucky, she would reach far across on the starboard tack, without their

shifting a rope.

Their hopes were justified and at length they made Barbadoes, and

sailing between the Windward Isles, entered the Caribbean. One phase of

the adventure was over, but Marston with vague misgivings realized that

another had begun. Somehow he felt he had not done with the shadow he

had shrunk from in Africa. For all that, nothing happened to disturb him

as they followed the coast, stopping now and then at an open roadstead,

and now and then in the stagnant harbor of an old Spanish town. Indeed,

Marston found much that was soothingly familiar; smart liners, rusty

cargo boats, and busy hotels. In parts, the towns had been modernized,

but civilized comforts, and sometimes luxuries, contrasted sharply with

decay and customs that had ruled since the first Spaniards came.

Wyndhams' had agents and correspondents at a number of the ports, but,

as a rule, they were dark-skinned gentlemen of uncertain stock. They

lived at old houses with flat tops and central patios, where the kitchen

generally adjoined the stable, and transacted their business in rooms

from which green shutters kept out the light. The business was

accompanied by the smoking of bitter tobacco and draining of small

_copitas_ of scented liquor. They declared their houses were Wyndham's,

but did not present him and Marston to their women.

Except for some American and German merchants they saw few white people.

The citizens were mulattos of different shades, negroes, and half-breeds

who sprang from Spanish and Indian stock, although it was often hard to

guess what blood ran in the _Mestizos'_ veins. For the most part, they

were a cheerful, careless lot; the coast basked in sunshine, with high,

blue mountains for a background, and Marston felt nothing of the gloom

and mystery that haunted the African rivers. At some of the ports

Wyndham made arrangements for the extension of the house's trade, but

Marston could not tell if he was satisfied or not.

When they lounged one evening on the veranda of a big white hotel,

Marston led his comrade firmly to talk about business. The hotel had

long since been the home of a Spanish grandee, and although the back was

ruinous the Moorish front had been altered and decorated by American

enterprise. Marston thought it a compromise between the styles of

Tangiers and Coney Island. The rash American had gone and the _Fonda

Malaguena_ owned the rule of a fat and urbane gentleman who claimed to

have come from Spain. For all that, the _Malaguena_ was comfortable, and

after the yacht's cramped, hot cabin, Marston liked the big shaded

rooms. The wine and food were better than he had thought, and as he sat,

looking out between the pillars, with a cup of very good coffee in

front of him, he was satisfied to stay a few more days. Small tables

occupied part of the pavement, white-clothed waiters moved about, and

people talked and laughed. A band played in the plaza and tram cars

jingled along the narrow street. There was a half moon and one could see

the black mountains behind the ancient town.

"I don't know if I ought to grumble, but it's obvious there's not much

money to be earned at the ports we've touched," Wyndham remarked. "Where

steamers call and trade is regularly carried on, competition cuts down

profits. You must use a big capital if you want a big return."

"It's the usual line," said Marston. "I think it's sound."

Wyndham smiled. "You like the usual line! The trouble is, my capital is

small."

"Then, you have another plan?"

"I have some notions I hope to work out. Wyndhams' have agents and

stores at places farther along the coast. Steamers can't get into the

lagoons and we use sailing boats. The trade's small and risky, but the

profit's big. We'll push on and see what can be done, although I don't

expect too much."

Marston pondered. He wanted to help Wyndham and had sometimes felt his

sportsman's life was rather objectless. For one thing, he might provide

himself with an occupation and perhaps stop Harry's embarking on rash

adventures. To invest his money would give him some control.

"Could you make the business pay if you had a larger capital?" he

asked.

"There are pretty good grounds for imagining so," Wyndham replied.

"Very well! I have more money than I need and have been looking for a

chance to use my talents. So far I've kept them buried, and if I don't

dig them up soon, they might rust away. If you agree, I'd like to make a

start now and try a business speculation." He named a sum and added:

"You promised you'd take my help when you saw how you could use the

money."

"You're generous, Bob," Wyndham remarked with a touch of feeling, and

then smiled. "However, I know you pretty well and think I understand

your plan. You want to keep me out of trouble and see I take the prudent

line. But was the plan yours or Mabel's?"

"Mine," said Marston, rather shortly. "All the same, I imagine Mabel

would approve. But this has nothing to do with it and you needn't invent

an object for me. I'm looking for a good investment. My lawyers only get

me three or four per cent."

"Then you make no stipulation?"

"I do not," said Marston. "You will have control and command my help. If

I couldn't trust you with my money, I would not have gone to Africa with

you. I won't grumble if you lose the lot. The thing's a speculation."

Wyndham knitted his brows for a few moments and then looked up.

"You're a very good sort, Bob. I'll take the loan."

"It's not a loan," said Marston firmly. "I'm buying a partnership."

"A partner is responsible for all losses and liabilities. A lender is

not; he only risks the sum he invests."

"Of course," said Marston. "I understand that."

A touch of color came into Wyndham's face, but he smiled.

"Oh, well, I knew you had pluck!"

Marston got up. "Now we have agreed, we'll get to work. Let's see if the

telegraph office is open. To begin with, we'll buy the lot of ballata

your agent at the other port talked about."

Wyndham laughed and they set off up the hot street.

CHAPTER VIII

THE LAGOON

After a few days, _Columbine_ sailed west, and one night lurched slowly

across the languid swell towards the coast. There was a full moon, but

Marston, standing near the negro pilot at the wheel, could not see much.

Mist drifted about the forest ahead and he heard an ominous roar of

surf. Although no break in the coast was distinguishable, the schooner

was obviously drifting with the tide toward an opening. The wind was

light and blew off the land, laden with a smell of spices and river mud.

Marston did not like the smell: he had known it in Africa and when one

felt the sour damp one took quinine. He had studied the chart, which did

not tell him much, and since there were no marks to steer for he must

trust the negro pilot.

There was a risk about going in at night and Marston would sooner have

hove to and waited, but the tide rose a few inches higher than at noon,

and Wyndham seldom shirked a risk when he had something to gain. By and

by he jumped down from the rail where he had been using the lead.

"I expect we'll get in, but I don't know about getting out if we're

loaded deep," he said.

"Do you expect much of a load?" Marston asked, because the chart did not

indicate a port.

"It depends on our luck. Small quantities of stuff come down; scarce

dyestuffs, rubber, and forest produce that manufacturing chemists use.

We have a half-breed agent. White men can't stand the climate long, and

the natives are rather a curious lot."

"Negroes?" said Marston thoughtfully.

Wyndham laughed. "There are negroes. I understand the population's

pretty mixed, with a predominating strain of African blood. I expect you

don't like that, but trade's generally good at places where steamers

don't touch. Profits go up when competition's languid."

Marston did not like it. He had thought his giving Wyndham money would

limit their business to trading at civilized ports. He imagined Harry

knew this and ought to have been satisfied, but he banished his feeling

of annoyance. After all, he had made no stipulation and was perhaps

indulging an illogical prejudice. He must, of course, trust his partner.

The yacht stopped with a sudden jar and her stern swung round. The sails

flapped and her main boom lurched across and brought up with a crash.

She bumped hard once or twice, and then floated off and went on again.

The misty forest was nearer and a dim white belt indicated surf. It

looked as if they were steering for an unbroken beach. Then a wave of

thicker mist rolled about them and the forest was blotted out. Wyndham

jumped on the rail, and Marston heard the splash of the lead. After that

there was silence except for the roar of the surf, and Marston went

forward to see if the anchor was clear, but Wyndham said nothing and the

schooner stole on. Although the breeze was very light, the tide carried

her forward and Marston felt there was something ghostly about her

noiseless progress. By and by, however, Wyndham threw the lead on the

deck.

"Another half-fathom! We're across the shoals," he said. "I expect the

pilot trusts the stream to keep us in the channel."

Marston nodded. He saw trees in front, and in one place, a dark blur,

faintly edged by white, that he thought was a bank of mud, but all was

vague and somehow daunting. The trees got blacker, although they were

not more distinct, the sails flapped and then hung limp. The pilot

called out, and when Marston gave an order the anchor plunged and the

silence was broken by the roar of running chain. This died away when

_Columbine_ swung, and except for the languid rumble of the surf all was

quieter than before. The pilot got on board his canoe and vanished in

the mist, and a few minutes afterwards Marston went to the cabin. It was

very hot, but when malaria lurks in the night mist one does not sleep on

deck.

When he awoke in the morning the cabin floor slanted, and going on deck

he saw why the pilot had told them to let the boom rest on the port

quarter. The tide had ebbed and although its rise and fall was not

large, belts of mud and channels of yellow water occupied the bed of the

lagoon. All round were dingy mangroves that overlapped and hid the

entrance. A little water flowed past the yacht, but it was plain that

her bilge rested on the ground. The bottom shelved, but the heavy boom

inclined her up the bank. There was nobody about and nothing indicated

that anybody ever visited the spot. Marston frowned, because it was hard

to persuade himself he was not in Africa.

About noon a canoe arrived with two negroes on board and Marston and

Wyndham were paddled to a village some miles up a creek. It was a poor

place; small, whitewashed mud houses, a rusty iron store, and a row of

squalid huts occupied a clearing in the forest. Wyndhams' agent had a

house by the creek and received his visitors in his office. Outside the

sand was dazzling, but the office was dark and comparatively cool. A

reed curtain covered the window, which had no glass, there was no door,

and little puffs of wind blew in. Don Felix was a fat and greasy

mulatto, dressed in soiled white duck, with a broad red sash, in which

an ornamental Spanish knife was stuck.

He brought out some small glasses and a bottle of scented liquor and

they began to talk and smoke. The agent's English was not good and he

now and then used French and Castilian words. Marston noted that he

talked about a number of unimportant matters before he touched on

business, and seemed unwilling to come to the subject.

"I can give you a load, but trade is bad," he said at length, and turned

to the window with a gesture that seemed to indicate the forest. "The

people up there are lazy and for some time have not brought much produce

down."

"It's natural produce, I suppose? Stuff that grows itself," Marston

remarked. "There isn't much cultivation in the bush?"

Don Felix shrugged. "_Quien sabe?_ Who knows what they do up yonder?

These people they are _drole_. Sometimes they bring me cargo. Sometimes

they come to beg; there is a _fiesta_ in their village, they make

_fandango_, _jamboree._ The trader pays for the fiesta and gets back

nothing."

"Then why do you pay?"

"It is better," Don Felix replied and looked at the door, as if to see

there was nobody about. "They are _bete_, the _Mestizos_, but when one

is wise one does not make enemies. There is much Obeah in the bush."

"_Obeah_'s something like African Ju-Ju? Magic of a sort?" Marston

suggested.

"Something like that," Wyndham agreed. "I don't know much about it." He

looked at the agent. "Do you?"

Don Felix made the sign of the cross. "Me, I am good Catholic; I know

nothing. They are _drole_ in the bush. When I think about their folly I

laugh."

"Not always, I imagine," Wyndham remarked dryly. "However, we must

persuade these folks we have goods they'd find useful. That's the

beginning of trade. When a man sees he needs things somebody else has

got, he gets to work and looks for something to sell. Now let's

consider----"

Marston listened while his comrade talked. Harry sometimes surprised

people who did not know him well. He was romantic but he had a

calculating vein. Harry could plan and bargain, and Marston reflected

that while the Wyndhams had long been adventurers they were traders,

too. After an hour's talk he had arranged much that promised to help the

agent's business and they went back to the creek.

"In a way, we're lucky," Wyndham observed while they paddled down

stream. "The people we're going to deal with are nearly pure Africans

and we know something about negroes."

Marston said nothing. He did not know if they were lucky or not and

rather doubted.

They returned to the schooner and in the morning cargo began to arrive.

Two or three days afterwards Wyndham went off to the village with some

of the crew and Marston gave the others leave to go ashore. Neither the

boys nor Wyndham came back at dark, but this did not matter. Although

the schooner rose upright for a few hours when the tide flowed, she

would not float until the new moon, and the muddy lagoon was as smooth

as a pond.

In the evening Marston sat in the little stern cabin. It was very hot

and his brain was dull but he did not want to go to bed until the crew

arrived. Moisture dripped from the ceiling and flies hovered round the

lamp that hung at an angle to the beams. The skylight was open a few

inches and although the opening was covered by mosquito gauze one could

not keep out the flies. Marston hated their monotonous buzzing, for

there is something about a mangrove swamp that frays a white man's

nerves. Water lapped against the planks and now and then there was a

splash in the mud. The tide was flowing and Marston imagined the water

round the vessel was three or four feet deep. It looked as if Wyndham

meant to stay away all night, and Marston wondered with a slight

uneasiness what was keeping him.

A mahogany medicine chest stood on the small swing table. It was of the

type supplied to British merchant ships, but larger, and the London

chemists had fitted it with the latest drugs used in the tropics. There

was a book about them and Marston had meant to re-arrange the bottles

and packets, which had got displaced. He was not a doctor, but he had

studied the book and found it interesting. Tropical diseases were

strange and numerous, and he had made some cautious experiments on the

crew. Now his head ached rather badly and he wondered whether he would

take some quinine.

Presently he put down the book and listened. Something had disturbed

him, but for a few moments he only heard the splash of the tide. Then

the scuttle over his head opened and a naked foot felt for the ladder.

The foot was white underneath, but although he was somewhat startled,

Marston did not think this strange. He had noted that negroes' and

mulattos' soles are often lighter in color than the rest of their skin.

He sat still until a half naked man, who came backwards down the ladder,

turned and confronted him with an apologetic smile. The fellow was old

and his face was wrinkled and a curious yellow color. Marston had in

Africa seen badly jaundiced white men look something like that, although

the sickly tint was not so dark. A network of red veins covered his eyes

but they looked as if they had been blue. His hair was all white. He put

a small carved calabash on the table and then squatted on the cabin

floor.

Marston frowned and waited. The carving had an African touch and it was

an African custom for a visitor to bring a present. The negroes called

it a _dash_.

"Cappy lib for village?" the mulatto remarked and Marston nodded.

He had not heard a canoe and wondered how the fellow got on board, since

his thin cotton clothes were dry. Moreover, although the half-breeds

Marston had met generally used creole French or uncouth Castilian, the

other said _lib for_, like a West African.

"Bad country; white man sick too much. You sick now?" the mulatto

resumed, glancing at the chest.

Marston made a sign of agreement. His head ached and he felt languid. It

was possible he had a mild dose of fever.

"I fix you," said the mulatto, who pulled out a small brass box and

emptied some brown powder on the table. "You drink him in hot water."

"Thank you," said Marston and scraped the stuff onto a piece of paper,

thinking he might experiment with it. The fellow could have no object

for trying to poison him and he understood the half-breeds knew some

useful cures.

"Now you dash me a drink," said the other, looking at a bottle of whisky

in the rack, and Marston rather wondered why he took down the bottle.

The whisky was extra good; he did not like mulattoes, and knew no reason

for his entertaining his uninvited guest. Yet he put a glass on the

table; one glass.

He imagined the other understood the significance of this, for his eyes

momentarily narrowed. It was strange, but they now looked blue. For all

that, he poured out a liberal measure of whisky and drank slowly, like a

connoisseur.

Marston studied him with some curiosity and on the whole felt repelled.

The old fellow looked cunning and greedy, but not debased. One got a

hint of cruelty and power, and his manner was very calm. In West

Africa, Marston would perhaps have kicked him out, but pure white men

are not numerous on the south and west coasts of the Caribbean and the

distinction of color is relaxed. Besides, he reflected, he was engaged

in trading with the natives.

"You lib for here for buy thing," the other remarked presently. "What

thing you want?"

Marston mentioned some articles Wyndham had talked about, and the other

nodded. "You go make me dash and you get them thing. Agent man fool man;

him no savvy black man's way in bush."

"If the stuff comes along, we'll talk about the dash," Marston answered

cautiously, although he did not like his visitor and wondered when he

would go.

"When white cappy come back?" the old fellow asked.

"In the morning, I expect," said Marston with a yawn.

The other got up as if he were going, and turned sideways in order to

pass between the swing-table and the locker. There was not much room,

for one does not lean against a swing-table, which keeps its level by a

counterbalance underneath when the vessel rolls. It looked as if the

mulatto knew this, and Marston thought it strange. Next moment, however,

he struck his naked foot against the fastenings in the deck and,

stumbling, put his arm on the table. The table tilted and the medicine

chest slipped off. It turned over as it fell and emptied bottles,

packets, scales, and measures on the deck.

The mulatto looked at the disordered pile and made for the ladder.

Marston did not stop him, although he was angry, and kneeling down began

to pick up the articles. The bottles were strong and had not broken,

and in a minute or two he replaced them and the other things in the box.

Then he went up the ladder and looked out on deck. A lamp hung on the

forestay as a beacon for the boats and one could see the sweep of planks

and line of the rail. There was nobody about and nothing broke the

silence. Beyond the feeble glimmer of the lamp it was very dark, but the

night was calm and Marston knew the splash of a paddle would carry far.

He crossed the deck and looked over the rail. The water caught a faint

reflection and he saw muddy foam and weed float past. The tide was

rising and running up the lagoon. One could hardly wade to land and it

was obviously impossible to do so without making a noise. Yet his

visitor had vanished and he had not heard him go. Marston remembered

stories about the Ghost Leopards he had heard in Africa, and laughed,

but the laugh was forced.

He went back to the cabin and, shutting the hatch, examined the medicine

chest. He did not know if he was surprised to find two articles had

gone; one was a bottle of laudanum and the other a packet of new and

powerful drugs. The book warned one to be careful about their use.

Marston lighted a cigarette and pondered. He was not certain the bottle

and packet were in the box when he got it down, although he thought they

were; he had sometimes taken things out when he dosed the crew and he

had used laudanum. Moreover, it looked impossible that the mulatto had

picked them up. So far as Marston remembered, he did stoop down or stop.

Then, supposing he had taken the stuff, it was hard to see why a man

who was half a savage should steal laudanum and the other drug.

If Obeah was like West African Ju-Ju, there were no doubt men who used

poison to support their claim to magical power; but strange and virulent

poisons could be extracted from tropical plants. Besides the fellow had

given Marston a cure for fever. Perhaps he was making a dangerous

experiment, but his curiosity conquered his caution and he resolved to

try the stuff. Going to the galley, he found some hot water, and as he

came back noted that one could see into the cabin through the

half-opened skylight. He wondered whether the mulatto had looked down

and noted the medicine chest. The brown powder melted, and he swallowed

the draught. Then he got into his bunk, and blowing out the lamp,

presently went to sleep.

CHAPTER IX

DON FELIX'S REVOLT

When Marston woke in the morning his headache and languidness had gone.

It looked as if the powder the mulatto had left had cured him, and

although he did not find the laudanum and packet of drugs, he resolved

he would not bother about their loss. In a day or two, small lots of

rather valuable cargo began to arrive and one afternoon Marston and

Wyndham lounged under the awning and watched the Krooboys transfer goods

from a big canoe to the yacht. Four or five negroes from up river put

the fiber packages in the hoisting slings.

The men worked slackly, for although the sun was hidden the heat was

extreme. A yellow haze covered the sky, but the oily surface of the

lagoon shimmered with subdued light. On the other side, the reflection

of the mangroves floated motionless, without a leaf quivering. Dark

shadow lurked in the caves under the high roots, and here and there the

massed foliage was touched by dirty white. Marston thought the trees

looked as if they were blighted by some foul disease. He hated the

mangroves and the smell of mud that hung about the vessel.

"The tides are beginning to get higher," he said. "It will be a relief

to leave this dismal spot and go to sea."

"Calling here has paid us," Wyndham rejoined. "We are getting stuff for

which dyers and chemists give high prices; stuff I wanted but hardly

expected to obtain. In fact, I'll own your mysterious visitor has earned

his dash. No doubt he'll turn up again and ask for it."

"D'you reckon he had much to do with our getting the goods?"

Wyndham shrugged. "I understand he promised you the articles you talked

about, and they have arrived. If he comes again, I'd like to see him.

Perhaps he could be persuaded to send us something else."

"He asked for you," said Marston, and wondered whether his remark was

rash when he saw Wyndham was pondering. Although Bob felt he was perhaps

illogical, he did not want Harry to persuade the fellow.

"I think you said his eyes were blue," Wyndham resumed presently. "Well,

one does meet a mulatto with blue eyes now and then, and it's perhaps

not important that the bottom of his feet was white----"

Wyndham stopped, for a splash of paddles broke the silence, and when a

canoe stole out of the shadow across the lagoon Marston said. "We may

learn something about him now. Here's your agent, Don Felix."

He thought Wyndham was going to reply, but he hesitated and then crossed

the deck as the agent and another man came on board. Marston called the

steward, who put a small table under the awning and brought out a bottle

of choice liquor they had bought at the last port. The party sat down

and Marston studied his guests. On the whole, he liked Don Felix and

thought him honest. The fellow's greasy fat face was frank and his black

eyes met one's glance squarely. For all that, he thought he did not

look well; there was a hint of strain about him and his hand shook when

he greedily drained his glass. The climate, however, was unhealthy, and

Marston turned to their other guest.

Father Sebastian was white, although his skin was dark and wrinkled. He

was very thin and his threadbare clothes were slack; his hair was white

and his eyes were sunk. He looked about with a frank curiosity and

Marston imagined it was long since he had been on board a ship and had

met civilized white men.

By and by Don Felix began to talk about the cargo and declared that he

was puzzled, because he had not received so large a quantity of valuable

goods for some time.

"It looks as if the people in the bush were working," he remarked and

added dryly: "They work when they are forced."

Marston told him about the mulatto's visit, and Don Felix's face got

dark. He drained his glass and turning to Father Sebastian repeated

Marston's story in awkward French.

"I do not like it," he said, "This foul Bat! I think he is plotting

again."

Father Sebastian made a sign of agreement and addressed Marston, whose

curiosity was obvious. He spoke slowly, as if it cost him an effort to

remember words, but Marston thought his French was good.

"An evil man! He is called the Bat because he likes the dark. Moreover

they talk about bats that drink human blood."

"If there are such creatures, why don't you kill them?" Marston asked

and glanced at Wyndham. He was smoking a cigarette and looked rather

bored, but Marston knew his friend and doubted.

"The Bat is hard to kill. Some have tried, but perhaps I may be

luckier," Don Felix answered, and his fat, nervous fingers touched his

Spanish knife. Then he shrugged. "All the same, it is possible he kills

me!"

The others said nothing. Don Felix was rather theatrical, but Marston

thought him strongly moved by anger or fear. By and by Don Felix went to

the hatch and examined one or two of the packages the Krooboys were

putting in the hold.

"What is this?" he asked. "These packages have a mark I know but I did

not buy the goods."

"The shipper will, no doubt, come to you for payment and we'll engage to

meet the bill," Wyndham replied. "The stuff is getting very scarce and

ought to sell for a good price."

"No!" exclaimed Don Felix angrily. "I buy nothing with that mark! You

must stop the boys loading the lot. Send it all back."

"Isn't this ridiculous?" Wyndham asked. "Why do you want us to refuse

the goods?"

Don Felix sat down and gripped the arm of his chair hard. "The man whose

mark that is is a friend of the Bat's," he said, and his voice got

hoarse. "I do not know if the goods are his or the other's, but I will

not buy the stuff. Bad luck would go with the money one earned by

handling it."

He said something to Father Sebastian in rapid creole French and the

priest turned to Wyndham.

"It is better that you send back this cargo," he remarked quietly. "Don

Felix is an honest man. He has given you advice that may cost him much."

Marston pondered, with his eyes on his guest. Father Sebastian was old

and shabby; he had obviously lived long with his savage flock, but he

was white. His glance was calm and thoughtful and he had a touch of

dignity. Marston thought he knew much about human nature and could be

trusted. Don Felix, however, got up and clenched his fist. It looked as

if the company of the priest and the others had given him some resolve.

"What do I care about the cost?" he exclaimed in French. "I was afraid

and I paid. Me, a good Catholic, I paid that these pigs might serve

their devil! But it has gone on long, and now I stop. This dirty Bat

will come between me and my employer; he leaves me out. Well, let it be

so!" He paused and spread out his hand with a theatrical gesture that

Marston thought was meant for the negroes in the canoe. "Now I fight. My

trade is my blood. I will kill this Bat!"

Father Sebastian shook his head, but Don Felix turned to Wyndham and

resumed in a defiant voice. "You will send back the packages? If not,

you must get another agent."

"Very well," agreed Wyndham. "You can tell the boys to unload the goods

you don't like."

He gave Don Felix a quick glance and Marston wondered whether he

expected him to hesitate, but the mulatto went back to the hatch and

gave his orders resolutely. Marston remembered that another lot of fiber

packages had been stowed at the bottom of the hold before the agent

arrived and were now probably out of sight. Wyndham however, said

nothing about these and filled Father Sebastian's glass.

"Our friend is superstitious," he remarked. "You know something about

Obeah, and Voodoo magic. I expect the men who teach the cult use cunning

tricks. But how much is trickery?"

"Ah," said Father Sebastian, "Who can tell? There are powers that rule

the dark. You know it is permitted when you have lived in the gloom.

Perhaps Don Felix is superstitious, but he takes a hard path. It is the

right path; I think he is brave." Then he paused and smiled. "I am old

and have lived in this country long. There is much about Voodoo and

other things that puzzles me; but this I know. They who walk in the

light need fear no lasting hurt."

"Sometimes one's light gets dim," said Marston.

"That is when we stray into the shadow and our eyes are dull. The light

burns steadily; it will not go out."

Don Felix came back from the hatch and stopped for dinner. When he and

Father Sebastian had gone, Marston asked Wyndham: "What about the other

lot of goods that was already in the hold?"

"Well?" said Wyndham. "Do you see any object for our returning the

stuff? For that matter, I don't know to whom it ought to be returned."

Marston said the goods could wait at the village until the owner claimed

payment. "We promised Don Felix we would not take this cargo," he added.

"You mean, I promised?" Wyndham rejoined. "My promise applied to the

particular lot he grumbled about. Anyhow, I want the goods. We can sell

them for a high price."

Marston admitted that the argument was plausible, although he doubted if

it were ethically sound. Still he must not be fastidiously critical

about his friend. He was rich and free from one kind of temptation;

Harry was poor. Wyndham noted his hesitation and resumed:

"Our voyage is not a yachting excursion. We are frankly out for what we

can earn, and I'm, so to speak, now on trial. I'm young and the head of

a house that people knew was tottering when I took control. Chisholm and

Flora's relations have reserved their judgment; they're willing to give

me a fair chance, but wait to see what I can do. Well, you know my

drawbacks and how much depends on my making good. In order to do so,

I'll run all risks."

Marston thought there was a risk Wyndham did not see. Flora Chisholm was

honest and proud. Her lover's success would not satisfy her if she

disapproved the means he used. This, however, was an awkward subject and

Marston owned that to imagine Harry would give her grounds for

disapproving was taking much for granted. He let the matter go and began

to talk about something else.

For all that, when Wyndham left him he lighted a fresh cigarette and

mused. Harry was his friend, but he began to see he had got a habit of

making allowances for him that he might not have made for others. Harry

had a strange charm and individuality; somehow one could not judge him

by conventional rules. Then Marston remembered that Mabel had let him

go in order that he might be Harry's protector, but the dangers he was

to be guarded from were not physical. Marston understood this better now

and doubted if he were clever enough for the job; Mabel did not mean him

to be a hypercritical prig. Anyhow, he had undertaken the job and Mabel,

perhaps rather foolishly, trusted him. He threw his cigarette away and

went off to superintend the stowage of the cargo.

The moon was getting small and the tides were higher when, one evening,

a messenger asked them to come to the village. They went up river in the

mist, and Marston felt languid and dejected. The day had been very hot

and it was not much cooler at dark. The stagnant air was hard to

breathe, there was something daunting in the silence, and the splash of

paddles sounded harshly loud. When they landed they found Don Felix

alone in his house except for a half-breed woman and Father Sebastian.

He lay in a fiber hammock and Marston saw he was very ill. His black

eyes were half shut, his face was a livid color and wet with clammy

sweat.

The room was brightly lighted and the half-breed woman sat on the ground

in a limp, huddled pose, with a black shawl hiding her shoulders and

head. She did not move when the others came in, but Don Felix's glance

hinted at relief, and Father Sebastian indicated two American bent-wood

chairs that looked strangely out of harmony with the mud walls and

floor.

"If we had known you were ill, we would have brought our medicine

chest," Marston said. "What is the matter?"

"Who knows?" said Don Felix, dully, and Marston imagined the Castilian

rejoinder meant his question admitted of no reply. "I will not live

until the morning, but I have lived longer than I sometimes thought. It

does not matter now the good father and my friends have come. I am no

more afraid."

Marston was puzzled; somehow Don Felix looked afraid. The first part of

his statement was easier to understand, because Marston had learned in

Africa that negroes and uncivilized half-breeds slip easily out of life

and often seem to know when theirs will end. But if Don Felix was not

afraid to go, what did he fear?

"Is there nobody about? Where are the working boys?" Wyndham asked.

"They have gone; they _know_," Don Felix replied, and Marston felt half

daunted as he asked himself; What did the boys know? "But you will

stay?" the other went on anxiously.

"Of course," said Wyndham in a quiet voice.

Father Sebastian looked up, as if to thank him, and Marston saw Harry

had taken the proper line. He felt there was no use in trying to

persuade Don Felix he was not very ill. It was significant that the

priest had not tried.

"Now we will talk a little," Don Felix said to Wyndham. "There is some

business to talk about."

Wyndham glanced at Father Sebastian, who made a sign of permission, and

then got up and went to the door with Marston. They sat down on a bench

outside and a beam of light and the dull voices of the others came

through the door. Marston did not hear the woman; she had not spoken at

all, but sat motionless and huddled. He had not seen her face and never

knew what she was like. All was quiet in the village, and outside the

feeble beam the gloom was strangely deep. Marston sympathized with Don

Felix's liking for plenty of light.

"What has caused his illness?" he asked.

"Poison, I think," Father Sebastian replied. "Our friend is a good

Catholic, but he is half persuaded it is something else."

"The other thing's ridiculous, though I suppose they claim to use magic

in the bush. But you ought to know something about native poisons."

"I know many, but Don Felix's symptoms are strange," said Father

Sebastian, quietly.

Marston asked him about the symptoms and carefully noted his answers.

Then he remarked: "I don't altogether understand why the boys left him."

"They were afraid. In this country, it is rash to help a victim of

Voodoo."

"But they are your people; I mean, they belong to your flock."

"They are human and one must not expect too much from men who have long

walked in the gloom. The old gods are powerful."

"The Obeah gods are devils!" Marston declared with an anger that rather

surprised himself.

Father Sebastian glanced at the surrounding dark, in which blurred trees

vaguely loomed.

"It is possible there are devils yonder. Things are done they would

approve," he remarked quietly.

"I understand the Bat is Don Felix's enemy. Do you think he poisoned

him?"

"I do not know. Perhaps we shall never know. In this country, many

people are poisoned."

Marston clenched his fist. "Don Felix is Wyndhams' agent and I'm a

partner in the house. If I find out who poisoned him, I'll see the

fellow is held accountable."

He stopped, for Wyndham came to the door, beckoning the priest.

"He wants you," he said, and they went in.

Marston long remembered the next hour or two. At first Don Felix was

shaken by spasms of pain and groaned, but was silent afterwards. His

eyes were dull and half shut, and when they opened wider they turned

apprehensively to the open door. Sometimes he glanced about the room and

Marston thought he took courage when he saw Father Sebastian sitting

near his hammock and Wyndham in the background. Yet he was obviously

afraid and his fear was disturbing.

For the most part all was very quiet, but sometimes there were noises

that jarred Marston's nerves. Although the night was calm, leaves

rustled in the dark and one heard sounds like the stealthy tread of

naked feet. Marston fancied shadows lurked about the edge of the beam

from the door and found it hard to persuade himself he was deceived,

although he knew nobody was there. For a minute or two moisture splashed

outside, as if somebody had struck a branch and shaken down big drops.

The noise stopped and Marston felt the silence worse.

Now and then he glanced at Wyndham. The latter did not move and looked

straight in front, but his quietness was significant and his mouth was

firm. Marston imagined he bore some strain, but it was often hard to

tell what Harry felt and thought. At length, Don Felix moved his hand

awkwardly, as if he felt for something to which he could cling, and the

slack movement did not stop until he felt Father Sebastian's grasp. His

haunted look was plainer, although he was now too weak to glance at the

door. It jarred Marston strangely, and getting up he went out.

Half-an-hour afterwards there was a wild cry in the house and Marston

shivered. It was the woman's voice and he knew why she had cried out.

Then Wyndham came to the door, and standing with his back against the

light, looked about for his comrade.

"We need not stay now," he said. "He was calm at the last and had all

the consolation Father Sebastian could give him. An honest man, and

brave, I think, believing what it's obvious he did believe!"

"He trusted you," Marston remarked, meaningly.

"It's possible he found our being about some help. We stayed while we

were needed."

"That is not what I mean," Marston rejoined. "If ever I saw a man fight

with fear, I watched the horrible battle to-night! The fellow was your

agent and somebody who destroyed his body sent an unthinkable horror to

torment his mind. The thing's devilish! What are you going to do about

it?"

"What can I do?" said Wyndham. "I have nothing to go upon."

Marston made a sign of agreement, but his face was very stern. "Some

day, perhaps, we'll find out who's accountable. I mean to try."

Wyndham said nothing and they went back to the canoe.

CHAPTER X

MARSTON USES HIS POWER

Soon after Don Felix was buried two strangers visited the schooner. One

was white but so burned by the sun and worn by the climate that he

looked like a native. Peters was agent for a Hamburg merchant house with

a factory on a neighboring lagoon, and told Wyndham he had come because

he seldom met a white man. The other was a government officer and

stated, apologetically, that his business was to make a few inquiries

about Don Felix's death. His skin was nearly white, but his coarse lips

and short, curling hair indicated a strain of negro blood.

Marston knew something about the officials who held small posts on the

Caribbean coast. For the most part, they were mulattos, paid low wages

and willing to augment the latter by presents and bribes. As a rule, he

had found them good-humored and indolent, and he imagined Don Ramon

Larrinaga would be satisfied with a few particulars and a little money.

There was, he thought, no use in trying to put him on the track of the

unknown poisoner. He let Wyndham take the man to the cabin and sat under

the awning on deck with Peters, for whom he opened a bottle of vermouth.

Peters knew much about the country and told him some rather curious

stories. He looked shriveled and desiccated, but his glance was keen and

Marston imagined he was very shrewd. Marston, however, did not study

him much; it was enough that he was an amusing companion while Wyndham

was occupied. By-and-by the latter opened the cabin scuttle and

beckoned.

"You have some paper money, Bob. Lend me a few bills," he said.

Marston asked the sum he wanted and was surprised when Wyndham told him.

"Is it necessary to give him so much?" he asked.

"Perhaps it's advisable. We'll soon be ready for sea and I expect the

fellow could keep us here while he made fresh inquiries and wrote

reports. He's polite, but he rather hinted something like that. Of

course, he has no notion of really finding out why Don Felix died."

"We want to find out," Marston rejoined.

Wyndham smiled. "That's another thing; the government officials don't

want to bother. If we knew who was accountable, it would be hard to get

them to move. However, Don Ramon is waiting----"

Marston took out his wallet and after giving Wyndham some money went

back to Peters, whose eyes twinkled.

"Your partner knows the customs of the country," he remarked. "On the

whole, it pays to be generous. In a climate like this, it's prudent to

save oneself unnecessary trouble."

"We don't want to avoid trouble," Marston replied. "If I was persuaded

our agent was poisoned and could get on the poisoner's track, I'd use

some energy to follow it up."

Peters shrugged. "You can do nothing; better let it rest. In the fever

swamps, men who are well one day often die the next. It is possible they

have an enemy in the bush, but the law does not reach up yonder.

Sickness is common and human life is cheap."

They talked about something else until Wyndham and Larrinaga came on the

deck. The latter bowed to Marston when his canoe was paddled to the

gangway.

"I thank you and your partner, senor," he said. "If I can be of help,

remember I am your servant."

"It was nothing," Marston replied. "I expect Senor Wyndham has told you

all we know, but if you can find out anything important, you'll earn our

gratitude. The man who tells me why Don Felix died can count on his

reward."

Peters gave him a curious glance and smiled. "After all, the reward may

perhaps be claimed. It is not likely, I admit, but things one does not

look for sometimes happen."

He got into the canoe and when the negroes paddled off Marston leaned

against the rail.

"I suppose we need expect nothing from Larrinaga," he remarked. "How

much did you tell him?"

"All I thought it useful for him to know," said Wyndham, rather dryly.

"He's a common type; lazy and greedy. Now he's got his bribe, I don't

suppose he'll bother us. What did you think about the other?"

"I didn't study him much. Amusing fellow, but you get a hint of force. I

imagine he's clever and a man who can hold on. Anyhow, he doesn't

matter, since it's improbable we'll see him again. We'll have the holds

full in a day or two and I've had enough of the lagoon."

"All the same, I'm rather afraid we can't get away just yet."

Marston began to grumble, but Wyndham smiled.

"There are things to straighten out and now we have no agent I may be

needed, but it won't be necessary for you to stay. In fact, I'd like you

to take the schooner to the next port and transship the cargo. Then you

could come back for me and the extra load I half expect, but I'll know

more when I've been to the village, and we'll talk about this again."

Wyndham started for the village next day, and when it was getting dark

Marston lounged on deck looking out for the boat. Some of the crew had

gone with Wyndham, the rest were in the forecastle, and except for the

cook at the galley door Marston had the deck to himself. The yacht was

slowly lifting with the tide, which spread across the mud banks in the

lagoon. Thin mist drifted about the mangroves and there was not a breath

of wind. The water glimmered with faint reflections but in a few minutes

it would be dark.

Presently Marston, looking over the rail, imagined there was somebody

behind him on the deck. For a moment or two, however, he did not turn.

He had heard no step and had recently felt himself highly strung. It

looked as if Don Felix's death had given him a jar, but he was not going

to indulge his shaken nerves. Still he felt there was somebody about and

he slowly and deliberately looked round. The mulatto who had visited him

before squatted on the deck, as if he had been there some time. Marston

thought he saw amusement in his wrinkled face and his anger arose.

"Cappy Wyndham lib for on board?" the old fellow asked.

"He is not on board," said Marston roughly. "What do you want?"

"You done get them cargo?"

"We did. I don't know if you had much to do with it, but I suppose you

expect your dash. What would you like? Money?"

The other shook his head. "Money no good. My friend sick too much. You

dash me some medicine."

Marston remembered the packet of drugs and found it needful to use some

control. He did not know if the mulatto was the Bat or not, but on the

whole thought he was and the horror of his watch at Don Felix's house

was fresh. Yet he had nothing to go upon and would not be justified in

throwing the fellow overboard. The other watched him with bloodshot

eyes, and although his face was inscrutable, Marston began to feel

uneasy. He wondered whether the fellow was something of a hypnotist, for

he got a hint of force; force that he thought malevolent. Looking

forward along the deck, he imagined he saw the cook at the galley door,

but the indistinct figure vanished and Marston felt it was significant

that the negro had gone inside. Then he braced himself and looked back.

"I will not give you medicine, but since we did get the cargo, perhaps

you deserve something," he said. "Wait a minute."

Going to the cabin, he opened a locker in which they had put a quantity

of African trade goods. The stuff was rubbish, made to please the

negro's eye; brass, jewelry, cheap scent, colored flannel jackets, and

frail umbrellas. Marston picked up as much as he could carry and was

conscious of rather dry amusement as he climbed the ladder. His visitor

had obviously learned English in West Africa and he was going to give

him the usual African dash, but he knew the old fellow had no use for

the stuff. It was like giving a philosopher a child's toy.

"There you are!" said Marston, throwing down the articles. "Now get

off!"

"I lib for see Cappy Wyndham," the other objected.

"Get off the ship," said Marston. "Don't come back!"

He wondered how the man would go. There was no canoe about and the water

round the vessel was three or four feet deep; she lay obliquely to the

beach. It was ridiculous to imagine the other had vanished on his last

visit, but Marston had not seen how he went. Now, however, he meant to

watch.

The mulatto picked up the load of rubbish and went forward along the

deck. He jumped on the end of the bowsprit and Marston smiled, for it

looked as if he could not use his tricks when one kept one's eye on him.

Balancing himself cautiously, he walked along the spar and melted in the

dark. But in a few moments there was a splash and Marston knew he had

dropped from the bowsprit's end into shallow water. Somehow this was

soothing and he went to the cabin. In an hour or two Wyndham returned

and when they lighted their pipes after supper Marston remarked:

"The old fellow Don Felix imagined was the Bat turned up again."

"Ah," said Wyndham, who looked interested. "Don Felix hadn't seen him;

we don't know he is the Bat."

"Father Sebastian agreed that he was, and I haven't much doubt. He said

the man was evil and I think evil's the proper word. He gives me a

strange nervous shrinking. Have you felt a kind of nausea when you

looked at something repulsive? Well, I feel like that when he's about."

"As a rule, you don't let your imagination carry you away," Wyndham

remarked. "I expect the heat and the dismal surroundings account for

much."

"Anyhow, I gave him a dash and ordered him off the boat."

Wyndham glanced up rather sharply. "Why? We have got some valuable

goods, and although we'll have to pay their owners, it looks as if the

old fellow was useful."

"I don't want any goods he sends," Marston rejoined. "My notion is

they're better left alone. Then I'm a partner, and although I haven't

meddled much, I felt I ought to use my power."

"Oh, well," said Wyndham. "You are a partner, I suppose we must let it

go."

They talked about something else and next evening Marston took the

schooner's dinghy and rowed down the lagoon. He had heard curlew whistle

in the dark and wondered whether the birds were as wild as they are in

England. For a time he followed the edge of the mangroves, where water

dripped from the arched roots, and amphibious things splashed in the

muddy caves; and then skirted a sloppy bank the tide flowed across. Now

and then he saw a curlew but did not get a shot, and by and by he put

down the oars. The damp heat was enervating and he rested and looked

about.

It would soon be dark and the mangroves cut in a straight black line

against a fading orange glow. The land-breeze began to shake the leaves

and now and then a pale branch moved. All was very quiet but for the

dull rumble of the surf outside. Marston felt languid and vaguely

disturbed. There was something about Wyndham that puzzled him. When they

were at sea he did not want a better friend, but it was different when

they went ashore to trade. Well, he had come to look after Harry and now

understood better why Mabel had let him go. Perhaps Harry really needed

to be looked after. Marston was staunch, but he knew Mabel had not

altogether trusted his comrade.

There was another thing; he must soon sail the schooner to the next port

and he wanted to go, but Harry meant to stay. Marston did not like this,

although he could think of no logical objection. The mulatto's visits

bothered him. The fellow had asked for Wyndham and somehow Marston would

sooner they did not meet. Perhaps the thing was ridiculous, but he felt

like that.

It got dark and although there was no obvious reason for his return he

felt he ought to get back to the yacht. Recently he had felt highly

strung. This was, no doubt, the consequence of pottering about the

unhealthy swamps, but he must control his illogical impulses and he

lighted his pipe while he let the dinghy drift with the tide.

She floated quietly up the lagoon and presently he saw _Columbine_'s

lights in the mist. Pulling a few languid strokes, he let the boat drift

again until the vessel's dark side was close ahead. Then he put out his

hand and seized a rope. He wore rubber boots, because he had thought he

might wade across the mud, and made no noise when he stepped down from

the rail. There was nobody on deck, but a light shone in the cabin and

when he went aft he heard voices. The skylight was open and one of the

voices was the old mulatto's.

Marston stopped abruptly. He wanted to go down and turn out the fellow,

but doubted if he would be justified, although he was Wyndham's partner.

Somehow it was unthinkable the brute and his comrade should engage in

quiet talk. For all that, he did not go, and turning back a few yards

stopped again. He must not be a fool, and no doubt the fellow had come

to talk about some goods his friends in the bush could supply. Marston

did not want the goods, but forced himself to wait.

By and by a shadowy figure came out from the cabin hatch. It made no

noise and Marston would not have seen it had not the indistinct black

object for a moment cut against the light. Outside the beam from the

open hatch all was misty and dark. Still Marston thought the fellow knew

he was there, because he vanished as if he had gone behind the mast.

Marston did not bother about him and went down to the cabin.

There was liquor on the table and Wyndham had obviously just drained the

glass he held. His hand shook as he put it down, his face was rather

white, and drops of sweat stood on his forehead. It looked as if he had

got a knock, although Marston knew Harry's nerve was good.

"I couldn't get near the curlew, so I came back," he remarked,

awkwardly.

Wyndham looked up, with an obvious effort for calm. "Oh, well, since you

are here, you might turn out the boys and heave up the slack cable."

Marston noted that Wyndham's voice was hoarse, but thought it better to

conquer his curiosity. Harry might give him his confidence later, and in

the meantime to heave the cable taut would obviate their bringing the

boys up again. The tide was rising and they wanted to float the schooner

off the mud. He went forward to call the crew and the clank of the

windlass and rattle of chain were soothing, since they indicated that

_Columbine_ was ready for sea. Marston owned that he would be glad to

get away from the lagoon. He was occupied for some time and when he went

back to the cabin Wyndham looked calm.

"We'll keep her off the beach after this," he said. "Sorry you didn't

get a shot. The curlew seem as wild as they are at home."

"I don't want her to take the beach again," Marston remarked. "When do

we sail?"

"You'll sail as soon as the pilot thinks there's water enough on the

bar. He comes to-morrow."

"But you mean to stay?"

"I must stay," said Wyndham. "We haven't an agent and I'm on the track

of some business I can't neglect."

Marston saw there was no use in urging his comrade to go. Harry's mouth

was ominously firm. He wondered whether Harry would tell him what the

mulatto had talked about, but he did not and soon after supper they went

to bed.

CHAPTER XI

MARSTON GOES TO SEA

The new moon shone in a clear sky and the tide was nearly full. Puffs of

warm land-breeze shook the mangroves and drove small ripples against

_Columbine_'s side. She rode to the flood stream, ready for sea, and the

clank of her windlass rolled across the swamps. The negro crew were

shortening cable and sang as they hove at the levers.

Wyndham was talking to Peters, who had arrived in the afternoon, and

Marston, standing near them, frowned. He was annoyed that Peters had

come, because he had wanted to talk to Wyndham and after the other's

arrival this was impossible. It was unlucky he had put it off, but he

did not see why Harry had urged the fellow to stay and go back to the

village with him when the schooner sailed. Marston felt rather hurt,

since it almost looked as if Harry had kept Peters in order to prevent

him trying to satisfy his curiosity.

Marston was curious. The old mulatto had told Harry something that had

given him a bad jar; Bob could not forget his comrade's strained look

when he entered the cabin, and he had found no clew to the puzzle. It

was a relief to go to sea, but the satisfaction he had expected to get

was dulled. He felt as if he were running away and leaving his partner

when the latter needed him. Yet somebody must go and Harry would not.

"Short up, sah!" a Krooboy shouted when the windlass stopped. The pilot

gave an order, and the foresail began to rise with a rattle of blocks.

The canvas flapped and swelled, and Marston went forward.

"Break out the anchor," he said. "Hoist the inner jib."

Dark figures rose and fell with the windlass-bars; slowly at first, then

faster, as with a harsh clank the chain ran through the pipe. Marston

had generally found the noise inspiriting. It hinted at adventure on the

open sea, but it did not move him now; he was not leaving the lagoon for

good. Yet he was soothed when _Columbine_ began to move. After lying on

the mud, he liked to feel her lift as she met the gentle swell the tide

brought in, and hear the ripple splash about her bows. The mangroves

stole past, a gap opened in the trees, and a faintly-glittering track

led out to sea.

"Hoist the mainsail," said the pilot, and the splash of ripples was

louder when the dark canvas rose.

She drove out with the land-breeze and met the rollers on the bar. They

were not high and hardly broke, only one here and there melting into

foam. She lurched across with dry decks, and when the leadsman got

deeper water the pilot brought her round and pulled up his canoe.

Marston went to the gangway with Wyndham and Peters, and the latter

laughed as he gave him his hand.

"I don't know if we'll meet again, but it's possible," he said. "You

offered a good reward for some information not long since. I wonder

whether you were rash."

"The offer stands," Marston replied. "The man who tells me all about our

agent's death will find me generous."

"Oh, well," said Peters. "I can't state that I expect to claim the

reward, but after all I might. Then I hope we'll both be satisfied."

Marston let him go. He would have given much for ten minutes' frank talk

with Wyndham, but this was impossible. The pilot was waiting and the

yacht drifting near a dangerous shoal. He resigned himself and gave his

comrade his hand.

"Run no risks and take care of yourself until I come back," he said.

"Good luck!" said Wyndham and jumped into the canoe.

Marston signed to the steersman, the sails filled, and the canoe dropped

astern. _Columbine_ gathered speed and listed down, throwing spray about

while the water foamed below her lee rail. Small white waves rolled down

the glittering track ahead and Marston's mood got lighter. After all, it

was a relief to put to sea; the salt wind was tonic and blew morbid

thoughts away. It was bracing to grapple with breaking waves and savage

squalls.

He looked astern. The canoe had vanished and a misty line indicated the

land. Marston was conscious of a strange repugnance as he watched it

fade. Sickness lurked in the steamy forest, where the gloom was touched

by mystery and something of horror. For a time, he had done with it, and

he would come back strengthened and invigorated by the change.

He gave the helmsman the course, and going to the cabin, opened a tin

box that held letters for England and manifests of cargo. He must copy

these out on the bills of lading when he transshipped the goods and as

he studied the lists he felt some surprise. _Columbine_ did not carry

much but her freight was valuable. Some had been put on board without

his knowing and he thought it strange Wyndham had not talked about its

cost. For example, there were small pearls. One found pearls at places

on the Caribbean, but the fisheries were jealously guarded and none were

near the lagoon. Then there was a packet of ambergris and Marston knew

ambergris was worth much. Don Felix had said nothing about this curious

stuff, which the cachalot whales throw up, and Marston wondered where

Wyndham had got it.

The voyage was obviously going to pay, but the strange thing was, their

cargo for the most part had come down after the agent died. To some

extent this bore out Marston's conclusion that the old mulatto was the

Bat and had power over Don Felix's uncivilized customers. Marston began

to muse about the fellow. He had power; one felt it, although he was old

and repulsive. Something indicated that he had inherited from his white

ancestors qualities not often found in half-breeds. Marston began to see

that this was partly why the fellow repelled him; one got a hint of

intelligence put to a base use.

The matter was not important, and he pondered about his finding Wyndham

and the other in the cabin. Harry was badly shaken, although Marston

knew his pluck. Something very strange and startling was needed to drive

the blood from his face and bring the sweat to his forehead. All the

same, it was ridiculous to imagine the mulatto had frightened him. The

old fellow was clever and no doubt claimed to be a magician in the

bush, but Harry was not the man to be cheated by his tricks. After a

time, Marston gave it up and went on deck.

_Columbine_ leaned over to the steady breeze. The sea was flecked with

white and a spray shower leaped about her bows. A foaming wake trailed

behind her and Marston's heart got light as he heard the shrouds hum and

felt her measured swing. He liked the sense of speed and buoyancy, the

feeling that he had control of straining wood and sail. To fight the

sudden wild Northers and keep her off reefs and shoals was a man's job,

but it was a job he knew. He did not know the other that Mabel had given

him, and often felt puzzled. Yet he had undertaken it and meant to make

good. By-and-by he went down to the cabin and to bed.

After a quick run he reached port, transacted some business, shipped his

cargo home by steamer, and then returned to the lagoon, where he found

Wyndham had another load ready. On the night after his arrival they sat

in the cabin, talking, and although Wyndham said nothing about the

mulatto he was frank. Indeed, Marston smiled when he remembered the

doubts with which he had left his comrade. All the same, he thought he

noted something about Harry he had not known before.

"You will sail again as soon as we can load the cargo, but for another

port," Wyndham said. "We have, so to speak, found a treasure house and

want to keep it dark. If other folks get to know, the treasure will soon

be picked up. Anybody can buy a pretty good chart of the coast for a few

shillings, and we have been lucky so far, largely because the shoals

keep steamers out."

"The thing will be known sometime," Marston remarked.

"Of course, but I hope to get the most part of the stuff that's worth

getting before our rivals come in."

"After that you'll let this branch of the business go?"

"I think not," Wyndham replied. "If I can find a good agent, we ought to

hold our ground in the regular trade, although the profits will not be

large."

"But you, yourself, don't mean to stay very long?"

"No," said Wyndham. "When I get the best of the produce that seems to

have been piling up and appoint our agent, I'll willingly clear out; but

I don't expect to do so for three or four months. I've got my chance now

and must seize it."

"Three months is a long time to stay at the lagoon. Besides, who will

look after the business at home?"

"My manager is pretty capable, though he's young and recently promoted.

Would you like to go?"

Marston laughed. "I'm not a business man. Would you trust me?"

"I don't think it would be rash. You're a careful fellow, Bob, and it

begins to look as if you had talents you didn't know. You have

transacted our business like a shipping clerk."

For a moment or two Marston hesitated. Wyndham looked amused and Bob

admitted that the situation had a touch of humor. He meant to stay at a

place for which he had a strange, superstitious dislike, in order to

help his comrade, who would sooner be left alone.

"I may go by-and-by, but I won't go yet," he replied.

They let the matter drop and in the morning Wyndham went up the creek in

the boat. He stated, rather vaguely, that he must arrange about some

cargo and it was three or four days before he returned. Then Marston

sailed with another load for a different port, and the French creole who

shipped the goods to England was frankly surprised by their value.

Indeed, his remarks indicated that the freight was worth much more than

Marston had thought. The latter returned to the lagoon, satisfied in one

way, but disturbed in another, and did not see much of his comrade.

Wyndham often left the vessel, and although he did not tell Marston

where he went, the loaded canoes that came down the creek hinted that he

was usefully engaged. It was plain that the business was remarkably

profitable, but Marston imagined Wyndham was overdoing the thing. He

began to look worn and was sometimes moody, for a white man cannot

strain brain and body hard in the tropic swamps.

Marston got uneasy about him, but to some extent sympathized. They could

not long enjoy their monopoly, rivals would soon be attracted to the

lagoon, and Harry was justified in seizing his chance. He had not

thought Harry greedy, but there was much at stake; Chisholm's approval,

Harry's business standing, and his marriage to Flora. Marston could

understand his comrade's running heavy risks for a girl like that.

Still he was bothered because he did not know all the risks; it was

possible that Harry was being driven far by his very natural ambition,

but there were lengths to which one ought not to go.

Another thing puzzled Marston. Don Felix had known the negroes and had,

moreover, negro blood in his veins, but the trade had not extended until

he was dead. It was strange the efforts of a white man and a stranger

had led to the sudden extension. Harry had obviously qualities and

knowledge that had not marked the other. But what were the qualities,

and what did he know? Although Marston sometimes brooded over this, he

saw no light.

One evening he sat in the cabin and studied their trading accounts while

Wyndham smoked. It was very hot and Marston's face and hands were wet

with sweat and his eyes were dazzled. Flies hovered about the light and

now and then a beetle struck the mosquito gauze in the skylight.

Presently Marston put down his pen and frowned.

"My brain's dull to-night," he said. "I ought to be satisfied with the

results of our venture, but there are things I don't see quite plain.

For example, we have got a lot of stuff for which we don't seem to have

paid."

"You are supercargo," Wyndham rejoined. "The accounts are yours and

they're remarkably accurate. All we have got is properly charged against

us."

"That is so; I have used your figures. All the same, we haven't handed

over much money."

"The business is largely done by barter."

"Of course," said Marston, with a touch of impatience. "We haven't

delivered much goods against the account."

"The goods will be delivered. Our customers haven't yet stated the

articles they want."

"This means they trust us until we can bring the stuff from England or

America? In fact, they're willing to trust us for some time?"

"It looks like that," said Wyndham and laughed. "Are you puzzled about

it, Bob? After all, Wyndhams' has long traded here and the house's

reputation is obviously pretty good."

"But I understand your agents never got such stuff as we have got."

"They were agents and we are principals; I expect that accounts for

something," Wyndham replied with a twinkle. "Besides, Wyndhams' never

had a supercargo like you."

Marston frowned and tried to think of some other matters that had

excited his curiosity, but could not make the effort, and Wyndham put a

bottle and glasses on the table.

"Shut the books and I'll mix a cocktail," he said. "You're working too

hard and it's very hot."

They went to bed soon afterwards and when he awoke Marston's head ached

and he did not get up. He thought he had a dose of fever and felt

strangely annoyed. Somehow he had not expected to get fever; he had

thought Harry might get it, and to be kept in his bunk was a

complication he had not reckoned on. Although Wyndham dosed him as the

medical book directed, the fever did not abate. For some days he tossed

about in his narrow bunk with a throbbing head and pain in his limbs,

and then lay half-conscious in limp exhaustion. He had strange dreams

and long remembered ones; indeed, he sometimes doubted if it were all a

dream.

He imagined he was back at the factory on the African river and

Wyndham's uncle, the man who vanished, was in the big mildewed room.

Marston saw him come out of his door and stand for a moment listening,

with his face touched by the moonlight; and then run forward and stop by

the body on the boards. The dream was horribly vivid and real, but the

big room got hazy and melted, as it were, into _Columbine_'s cabin.

Marston saw the lamp, turned low, hang at an angle to the beams, and the

charts and cargo books in the net rack. He smelt the mud and heard the

ripples splash against the schooner's side. Somebody sat in front of the

table and when the man looked up he saw it was Rupert Wyndham. Marston

knew him because he had seen his portrait, but his hair had gone white

and his skin very dark. In fact, he did not look like a white man. He

got up and his face and bent figure melted as the room at the factory

had melted, but very slowly got distinct again and Marston thrilled with

repulsion and horror. Rupert Wyndham had changed to the old mulatto.

His naked feet made no noise as he crossed the floor and Marston

struggled to get up but could not. His lips refused to move when he

tried to call for help; the old fellow had fixed his bloodshot eyes on

him and he felt powerless. The mulatto stopped by his bunk, holding out

a glass, and Marston knew he meant to poison him. He resolved he would

not drink, but felt he must. There was something in the fellow's steady

look that broke his resistance and for a few moments he fought a

horrible battle against a strange conquering force. Then he took the

glass and drained it, and the mulatto melted away. He did not vanish.

This implied suddenness; he faded out of the cabin by imperceptible

degrees.

Marston knew no more and awoke in daylight, haunted by the dream. He was

surprised to feel he was not worse; indeed, his head did not ache and

although he was very weak the pain in his limbs had gone. His throat was

parched and there was a strange taste in his mouth, as if he had

swallowed the draught he dreamed about. Wyndham sat on the locker and

got up when he saw Marston was awake.

"You look different. I think you have seen the worst," he said. "I've

been bothered about you, Bob."

Marston smiled. He did not want to talk and the relief he saw in his

comrade's face was soothing. He went to sleep again and it was dark when

he awoke. He did not dream that night and in a few days got, rather

shakily, out of his bunk. Wyndham put some cushions for him on the

locker and they began to talk.

"The boat's full to the hatches and we go to sea to-morrow," Wyndham

said. "If the wind keeps fair, I expect to put you on board the Spanish

liner for the Canaries in three or four days. You'll transfer to a

homeward Cape boat when you arrive."

"But I don't want to go home yet," Marston objected.

"You are going all the same," Wyndham declared. "You have been very ill

and a sick man hasn't much chance in this miasmatic air. There's no use

in arguing; you have got to go."

Marston grumbled, but they sailed with the next high tide, and when they

made the port where the Spanish steamer lay he let Wyndham help him on

board.

PART II

WYNDHAM CLAIMS HIS REWARD

CHAPTER I

MABEL PONDERS

It was four o'clock in the afternoon and Marston sat by a window in an

English country house. His pose was limp and his face was thin, for the

fever had shaken him, but he felt his strength coming back. Outside,

bare trees shook their branches in a fresh west wind, and a white belt

of surf crept across the shining sands in the broad estuary. On the

other side, the Welsh hills rose against the sunset in a smooth black

line.

Marston felt pleasantly languid and altogether satisfied. Mabel had put

a cushion under his head and given him a footstool. It was soothing to

be taken care of by one whom one loved, and after the glare of the

Caribbean and the gloom of the swamps, the soft colors and changing

lights of the English landscape rested his eyes. For all that, they did

not wander long from Mabel, who sat close by, quietly pondering. With

her yellow hair and delicate pink skin she looked very English, and all

that was English had an extra charm for Marston. He liked her thoughtful

calm. Mabel was normal; she, so to speak, walked in the light, and the

extravagant imaginings he had indulged at the lagoon vanished when she

was about.

Yet he had been forced to remember much, for Chisholm and Flora had come

to hear his story, and he had felt he must make them understand in

order to do his comrade justice. Flora's grateful glance and the sparkle

in Chisholm's eyes hinted that he had not altogether failed.

"It's a moving tale; I felt I was young again," Chisholm remarked when

Marston stopped. "A daring voyage for a craft as old as _Columbine_ and

Harry obviously handled her well. Some folks declare we're decadent, but

my notion is, a race that loves the sea can't lose its vigor, and the

spirit that sent out the old adventurers is living yet. Well, I wish I

had been with you!" He paused with an apologetic smile and turned to

Flora. "It's plain that Harry has qualities."

"He has a good partner," Flora replied and gave Marston a friendly nod.

"I mean that, Bob."

"The persistence of the family type is a curious thing," Chisholm

resumed. "In old times, Wyndhams' sent out slavers and privateers, and

although Harry's modern, he's taking the path his ancestors trod. Well,

in a sense, he's lucky, because he can make seafaring pay. The rest of

us must indulge it tamely on board a yacht and, however you economize,

yachting costs you much."

"Harry has a talent for making his occupations pay," Marston agreed and

noted that Flora knitted her brows.

"You are romantic, father," she said. "I don't think Harry is taking his

ancestors' path. They were hard and reckless men and traded in flesh and

blood. You trade in rubber and dyewoods, don't you, Bob?"

"For the most part. However, we get a bit of everything; ambergris,

pearls, and curious drugs."

"I like pearls," Flora remarked, but stopped rather abruptly and Mabel

gave Marston a quick glance. He thought he saw what she meant; he must

not talk about pearls just then.

After a time Flora said they must go, and went out with Mabel, but

Chisholm stopped by Marston's chair.

"It looks as if you were quite satisfied about this venture of

Wyndham's, Bob," he said.

"Why, yes," Marston replied. "I've backed my approval by investing a

good sum."

Chisholm was quiet for a moment or two, and then resumed: "That is not

altogether what I meant; in fact, it's hard to state frankly what I do

mean. I like Harry Wyndham. He's clever, resolute, and a good sportsman,

but when he wanted to marry Flora I hesitated. Well, your story has

given me some comfort. You have been with Wyndham and are satisfied. One

can trust you."

"You are very kind, sir," Marston answered with a touch of awkwardness.

"The business is risky, the climate's bad, and one must use some

control. Leave liquor alone, for example; I think you understand! Still

Harry's rather a Spartan; there's an ascetic vein in him. Besides, he

won't stay long. As soon as he has put things straight he's coming

back."

"Thank you," said Chisholm, but when he went off Marston felt

embarrassed.

Chisholm trusted him and he was not sure he had been altogether frank.

Wyndham, of course, was free from certain gross temptations to which

some white men in the tropics were victims; but there were others,

subtle and insidious, that rather appealed to the brain than the body.

Marston could not declare that Harry resisted these. Yet it was

impossible he should tell Chisholm his vague but disturbing doubts. It

was some relief when Mabel returned and sat down opposite.

"Have they tired you, Bob?" she asked. "Light a cigarette and don't talk

unless you want."

"I want to talk," said Marston, who used no reserve with her.

"Very well. To begin with, you saw my hint when Flora talked about the

pearls."

Marston laughed. "After all, I'm not so dull as some people think. You

didn't want Flora to know I had brought you pearls?"

"Something like that. Why did Harry send her none?"

"It's rather puzzling," Marston replied thoughtfully. "I suggested I

should take a few to Flora, but he said they were not good enough.

They're not really first-class pearls, you know. Then he said they might

be unlucky. The strange thing is, I think he meant it."

"Yet you brought some for me? You're honest, but you don't always use

much tact, dear Bob!"

"Oh, well. We're not superstitious and I'd no grounds for thinking the

pearls would bring bad luck."

"It looks as if your partner had some grounds."

"Yes," said Marston. "I don't understand the thing. For that matter, I

was puzzled about other things now and then, and although I wanted to

get back to you I felt shabby about coming home. Somehow I had a notion

I ought to stay. After all, you let me go and would like me to finish my

job."

"You're rather a dear and very staunch," Mabel remarked with a gentle

smile. "Anyhow, you were ill and had done enough."

She was quiet for a time and Marston was satisfied to smoke and study

her. It had got dark, but the fire was bright and touched her face while

she sat still, as if lost in concentrated thought. Marston thought her

beautiful and she had beauty, but her beauty was not her strongest

charm.

"Bob," she remarked presently, "yours was a curious dream."

"I had fever, you know, but the thing was remarkably real. It was like

lantern pictures melting on the screen. Background and figures were

accurate and lifelike. In the last scene, I knew I was in _Columbine_'s

cabin and can hardly persuade myself I was quite asleep. The tide

splashed about the boat; I could smell the mud."

"Yet you saw Wyndham's uncle change into the horrible old mulatto."

Marston nodded. "He faded and got distinct again, different, but not

different altogether. This was the puzzling thing. However, the story

the agent told us about the Leopards had haunted me and I'd often

thought about Rupert Wyndham. Perhaps it was because I saw his portrait

and he was like my partner."

"You mean he was like him physically?"

"That's not all. Of course a portrait doesn't tell one very much, but I

thought Harry had Rupert's temperament."

"I see," said Mabel, knitting her straight brows. "To begin with, do you

know Rupert Wyndham's temperament?"

"In a way; Harry and Ellams, the agent, talked about him much. He was a

daring man; I think reckless is the proper word. We sober folks have our

code, we must do this and not the other; men like Rupert Wyndham have

none. If a thing looked worth getting, he'd venture much and break rules

for it. Harry, you know, is like that; I mean he'd venture much. Well, I

think Rupert made some rash experiments in Africa. He studied the

negroes' habits and tried to get their point of view."

"With an object, you suggest? What did he want?"

"Harry imagined it was power."

"Ah," said Mabel. "Harry wants Flora. And he has Rupert's recklessness!"

Marston made a sign of disagreement. "There's a difference. A man might

do much for power; but for a girl like Flora he must be fastidious. It

wouldn't help if he got money and lost her respect. Harry knows this.

He's not a fool."

"But suppose Flora didn't know how he got his money?"

"Harry doesn't cheat. He wouldn't use means she disapproved and then

claim his reward."

"Oh, well," said Mabel, "I think we'll let it go. I like you to trust

your friends."

Soon afterwards a car came to the steps and Mabel saw that Marston put

on a warm scarf and fastened his collar before he drove off. Then she

went back to the fire and pondered his story and subsequent remarks. The

story was strange, but she thought she saw a light where all was dark to

Bob. She had long suspected that Wyndham was reckless and would not be

bound by rules if the prize he sought made his breaking them worth

while. Moreover, she had got books about West Africa and the Caribbean

that touched on Fetish and Voodoo superstitions. Perhaps she was

romantic, but it was possible Wyndham, led by strong temptation, had

ventured where a white man ought not to go. With an effort, Mabel

banished her doubts. After all, the thing was unthinkable. Bob had not

been cheated; he knew Harry.

In the morning, Marston occupied himself with some old books in

Wyndhams' office at the top of a big stone building. The office was

comfortably furnished and there was a good picture of an old-fashioned

sailing ship on the wall; the big single-top sails indicated when she

was built. At the end of the street the window commanded, the masts and

funnels of channel steamers rose above a warehouse where Wyndhams' barks

and brigs had loaded goods they bartered for slaves. Marston glanced at

the modern iron masts and smiled when he looked up, for the book he

studied had nothing to do with business.

It was the log of the slaver _Providence_ that Wyndham had talked about,

and it related how they towed her with the boats when the negroes died

in the suffocating hold. There was something about a sacrifice that did

not bring the needed wind and its cost was charged against the freight.

They were hard men, touched by strange superstitions, who towed the

_Providence_, but their brutality was businesslike. Marston found an

entry for the negroes used up at the oars, with their value at Jamaica

properly noted.

After a time, he shut the log-book. He had read enough and resolved

there would be a break in some of Wyndhams' traditions now he was a

partner in the house. He had noted things he did not like, and Harry

would support his new plans when he came home. By and by he heard steps

in the clerks' office and a broker was announced. The latter came in and

put a small brown jar on the table.

"I told your people we wanted some hard oil and they sent us samples,"

he said. "If the bulk's quite up to specimen, I think it ought to meet

the bill. We must have prime quality for the particular job."

Marston picked up the jar, which held a quantity of thick yellow grease.

It was palm oil and its strong but rather pleasant smell awoke vivid

memories. He saw the whitewashed factory shine beside the muddy river

and a gang of naked negroes filling big barrels in a compound tunneled

by land-crabs' holes. The compound glowed with light against a

background of forest wrapped in unchanging gloom, from which the palm

oil came. For all that, the oil was a well-known article of commerce.

There was nothing mysterious about its production and Marston would have

been satisfied had Wyndhams' confined its trade to stuff like this. Then

he saw the broker was waiting.

"Don't samples generally stand for the bulk?" he asked.

The broker looked at him rather sharply and smiled.

"It depends upon the people with whom you deal and the skill of their

warehouseman. A man who knows his job can draw samples that will pass a

good-middling lot as prime, and this without the buyer's being able to

claim that they're not fairly representative. But of course, you

know----"

"I don't know. You see, I'm a beginner," Marston replied, and examined a

ticket stuck in the oil. "Well, I saw this lot barreled in Africa. The

quality is _not_ prime."

The broker looked surprised and annoyed. "Then your manager has made

things rather awkward for us. One uses some judgment about samples, but

our customer must have a first-class article and we engaged to supply

him at a stated price. I'll own that the price was a little below what

others asked. We quoted on your offer."

"Our offer stands," said Marston, who indicated the jar. "Will you be

satisfied if the oil we send is all like this?"

"We will be quite satisfied."

"Very well. Send in the order and you'll get the quality you want."

The broker lighted a cigarette and gave Marston his case. "I like the

way you do business. We are buying for big people, the trade's steady

and good, but we haven't dealt much with Wyndhams' before. If this lot's

all right, other orders will follow."

"You can take it for granted the lot will be all right," Marston

replied.

He frowned when the broker went out. It looked as if Wyndhams' goods had

not always been up to sample and Marston remembered hints he heard about

the character of the house. Harry, however had not long had control and

had, perhaps, left things to his clerks. It was going to be different

now.

Presently Marston got up and went to the general office where he

interviewed the young manager. He did not say much, but he was very

firm and when he returned to his room the other shrugged.

"If the new partner takes this line, your next balance sheet won't be

good," he remarked to the book-keeper.

CHAPTER II

MABEL'S PEARLS

Four months after Marston reached England, Wyndham came home. He had got

thin and, when he was quiet, looked worn, but he had returned in triumph

and soon persuaded Marston that his efforts had earned a rich reward.

Things had gone better than his letters indicated.

On the evening of his arrival, he waited in Flora's drawing-room for

Chisholm, who had not yet got back from his office at the port. Electric

lights burned above the mantel and Wyndham sat by the cheerful fire,

with Flora in a low chair opposite. For a time she had listened while he

talked, and now her eyes rested on him with keen but tranquil

satisfaction. Harry had come back, as she had known he would come, like

a conqueror. She was proud that he had justified her trust, and although

it had been hard to let him go, this did not matter.

She was ashamed of her hesitation when he first declared himself her

lover, but the suspicion that she was rash had not lasted long. Flora

was loyal and when she had accepted him looked steadily forward. It was

not her habit to doubt and look back. One thing rather disturbed her;

Harry was obviously tired. Before he went away his talk and laugh were

marked by a curious sparkle that Flora thought like the sparkle of wine.

This had gone, but, in a way, she liked him better, although his sober

mood was new.

By-and-by he glanced about the room, which was rather plainly furnished,

but with a hint of artistic taste. Chisholm was not rich and the taste

was Flora's. Then he moved his chair and leaned forward to the fire with

a languid smile.

"Our English cold is bracing, but it bites keen when one has known the

tropics," he said. "I like light and warmth."

"You got both on the Caribbean," Flora remarked.

"No," said Wyndham, "not much light. For a few hours, the glare was

dazzling, but soon the shadow crept back from the bush and the

fever-mist floated about the boat. On the creek and at the village, you

got a sense of gloom that never melted." He paused and added with a

smile: "It's often like that in the tropics, and the gloom is not

altogether physical."

Flora noted the thinness of his face and his pallor. Her glance got soft

and pitiful.

"My dear!" she said. "I wanted you to win; not that I cared for your

winning, but because I wanted you to satisfy others who do not know you

so well."

"Your father, for example?" he rejoined with a twinkle. "Well, he took

the proper line, but I think I have some arguments that will persuade

him."

"I sent you," she said, with a touch of color. "Afterwards I saw that I

was shabby and vain. I ought not to have let you go. What did it matter

about the others, when I was satisfied? You have won and they will own

this, but I'm afraid it has cost you much."

Wyndham gave her a rather sharp glance and then smiled. "One must pay

for what one gets, but, if it's much comfort, I was very willing."

"You were always generous, but I'm afraid you're sometimes rash."

"The rashness was justified. If I had to choose again, I'd stake my all,

fortune, mind, and body, and think the risk worth while."

"You're very nice," said Flora, and added with a blush: "But, in one

way, there was no risk. Even if you had been beaten, I would have

persuaded father. It was rather for his sake you went than mine and

that's why I'm half ashamed. But he deserved something; he has long

indulged me."

She got up. There were steps in the passage, and Chisholm came in.

Wyndham stayed for dinner and afterwards went with Chisholm to his

smoking-room and gave him a document.

"My book-keeper drafted the statement, because I thought you ought to

know where I stand," he said. "The sum indicated could be invested for

Flora. Not much of a marriage settlement of course, but perhaps it will

help to banish your very natural doubts."

Chisholm studied the paper with some surprise. "You have done much

better than I thought; I don't know if this is flattering or not. In

fact, when one remembers that you have not long been head of the house,

your success is rather remarkable."

"I ran some risks," said Wyndham, smiling. "We have got started; perhaps

I'm optimistic, but I came home persuaded we are going on. It's possible

we may go far."

"You have a good partner," Chisholm remarked.

"The best!" Wyndham agreed quietly.

Chisholm liked his hint of feeling, but hesitated, although there was no

obvious reason for this. He liked Wyndham, and the latter was on the

way to mend his fortune. All the same, he shrank, rather illogically,

from giving his formal consent to the wedding.

"Well," he said, with something of an effort, "I'm glad your affairs are

going as well as you hoped and I suppose you now expect me to keep my

promise. I've no grounds to refuse and you can marry Flora when she is

ready."

Wyndham went soon afterwards and Chisholm said to Flora, "You declared

Harry would force me to approve and he has done so."

"What do you approve?" Flora asked, smiling.

"Oh, well," said Chisholm, "I think I see what you suggest. Looks as if

I must be frank. Since my duty is to take care of you, it's a big relief

to find Harry is a good business man and is going to make Wyndhams'

prosperous. I like to feel he's able to give you all you ought to have."

Flora's glance was proud. "I want you to be satisfied, and it was for

this I let Harry go. I would not have hesitated had he come back

disappointed and poor. Now I feel half cheated, because, in one way, he

doesn't need my help."

"You are a plucky girl," said Chisholm. "Still I expect it's better he

has come back rich. After all, romance wears off, and then, if money's

short, the strain begins."

"Your philosophy's not very good," Flora rejoined with a laugh. "Real

romance never wears off; the strain's the test that marks the difference

between the true and false. However, since you have carried out your

duty and used a caution that's rather new, you ought to be happy."

She kissed him and he let her go, but he was thoughtful afterwards. He

felt he ought to be happy, but somehow he was not. By-and-by he got up

and went to meet Mabel and Marston, whom he heard come in. A famous

Shakespearian actor was visiting the town and Marston had called to

suggest that they should see the play together. They fixed a night,

without knowing in which of his favorite parts the tragedian would

appear. Mabel said this was not important, because he was good in all.

When the car stopped at the theater she went with Flora to the

cloak-room and began to take off her furs in front of a long glass. As

she did so she hesitated, because she remembered something she ought to

have remembered before. It was too late now, for as the cloak slipped

off her shoulders a string of small pearls caught the light. Flora had

not long since said she liked pearls. Then Mabel saw that Flora had seen

the pearls, and thought she had noted her hesitation, because she

smiled.

"They are very pretty," Flora remarked. "I suppose Bob gave them to

you?"

"They are small," said Mabel deprecatingly, but not because she did not

value her lover's present. "Bob said something about their not getting

any Harry thought good enough to send home."

"Bob and you are very nice, but you're sometimes obvious," Flora

rejoined. "However, I'm not jealous, and if the pearls are small, they

stand for much."

"These stand for endurance and bold adventure. I think Bob did not get

them easily."

"That would not matter to Bob," said Flora. "But I wonder what they cost

the others, the dark-skinned men who found them on the sands beneath the

Caribbean. Pearls, you know, sometimes stand for tears." She moved from

the glass, for the room was filling, and smiled as she resumed: "I don't

know why I indulge a morbid sentiment when I'm happy. You will never

have much grounds to cry for Bob."

They went down a passage and found their places in the stalls. The house

was full and Marston had engaged such seats as he could get. Wyndham,

Flora and Chisholm were in front; Mabel and Marston in the row behind.

"_Macbeth!_" he said as he gave Mabel a program. "Rather curious; but I

like the play. Kind of plot one can understand."

"Why is it curious?" Mabel asked. "Don't you understand them all?"

"Not like this," said Marston, with a touch of awkwardness. "The

motto--or d'you call it the motive?--is plain from the start. 'Ambition

that over-leaps itself,' if I'm quoting right."

Mabel said nothing. Bob was not clever, but he was sometimes shrewd and

she saw what was in his mind. This was easier because he looked

uncomfortable. The poor fellow felt he had not been quite loyal to his

friend. Then Mabel frowned. Perhaps Bob had seen clearly; there _was_ a

parallel.

The lights went out and when the curtain rose Marston tried to banish

his disturbing thoughts and enjoy the play. He had seen it often, but

the story gripped him with a force he had not felt before. All was well

done. Pale flames played round the witches' cauldron, and there was

something strangely suggestive about the bent figures that hovered about

the fire and faded in the gloom. He had sometimes thought the

witch-scene unnecessary, but now he felt its significance. In

Shakespeare's days, men believed in witchcraft, and when one had been in

Africa one owned there were powers that ruled the dark. Bob was quiet

and listened, with his mouth firmly set.

A line caught his notice: "Her husband's to Aleppo gone, the master of

the Tiger." Marston had not thought much about this before, but he saw

the strange, high-pooped old vessel, manned by merchant adventurers,

plunge across the surges of the Levant. She was a type; there were

always merchant adventurers, and he pictured _Columbine_ rolling on the

African surf.

Then for a time he let the play absorb him. The witches were tempting

Macbeth, flattering his ambition, promising him power. The gloom and the

flickering light round the cauldron recalled Africa; Marston had seen

the naked factory boys crouch beside their fires, tapping little drums,

and singing strange, monotonous songs that sounded like incantations. He

thought about Rupert Wyndham; witches were numerous in Africa and

Marston wondered what they had promised him. Was it power? Or knowledge

the cautious white man shuns? Marston glanced at Wyndham, in front. He

had not spoken since the curtain rose and the pose of his head indicated

that his eyes were fixed on the stage. He was very still and Marston

thought the drama had seized his imagination.

The cauldron fire leaped up, throwing red reflections that touched a

figure moving in the gloom. Marston wondered whether his eyes were

dazzled, for the hooded figure began to look like the Bat. Then there

was a flash, the witches vanished, and he felt a strange relief when the

curtain fell and the lights went up.

"Very well done! A realistic scene!" Wyndham remarked, looking round.

"Did you know it was _Macbeth_, Bob?"

"I did not," said Marston. "If I had known, I think I'd have picked

another night."

Wyndham looked hard at him, and then laughed and began to talk to Flora,

but Marston felt jarred. Harry laughed like that in moments of tension

when others swore. Then he saw that Mabel was studying him.

"You are quiet, Bob," she said.

"It's long since I saw a good play," Marston replied. "My first

relaxation since I got to work, and I expect it grips me harder because

it's fresh. Full house, isn't it? Do you know many people?"

"I see one or two friends of yours. They have been looking at you, but

you wouldn't turn."

"I didn't see them," said Marston. "I've got the habit of dropping

people since I joined Wyndhams'. Regular work is something of a novelty

and while the newness lasts you get absorbed. I don't know if it's good

or not. What do you think?"

Mabel laughed. "Well done, Bob! It cost you something, but you felt you

ought to talk."

"It oughtn't to have cost me anything," said Marston apologetically.

"But how did you know?"

"My dear, you're honest and obvious. Besides, we do know things, by

instinct perhaps. I would always know when you were disturbed."

"I'm not disturbed. You are here."

"Ah," said Mabel, "now you're very nice! But let's be frank. You were

thinking about another drama, in real life, that touches you close. I

see one comfort; there's no Lady Macbeth in the piece."

Marston agreed and mused. The light was good, and touched Mabel's face

and neck where the small pearls shone. He saw Flora's face in profile,

her shoulders, and the flowing curve of her arm. He liked the fine poise

of her head. She looked proud and somehow vivid; one got a hint of her

fearless, impulsive character. Her hair and eyes were brown and she wore

a corn-yellow dress. Mabel's skin was white and red, and her dull-blue

clothes matched the color of her eyes. She was calm, steadfast, and

sometimes reserved, a contrast to Flora, although in ways they were

alike. Both were honest and hated what was mean. Marston felt comforted.

There was no Lady Macbeth in the piece.

Moreover, a glance along the rows of people was calming. There were

business men with shining, bald heads, and some younger whose clothes

were cut in the latest mode. Women of different ages, for the most part

fashionably dressed, sat among the others, but all wore the conventional

English stamp. There was nothing extravagant about them; Marston thought

they sat contentedly by modern hearths. They were not the people to

follow wandering fires. Perhaps he was something of a romantic fool;

but when one had been in Africa and the swamps beside the Caribbean--

The play went on. He saw Macbeth's ambitions realized. The witches'

promises were fulfilled, but with fulfillment came retribution that had

looked impossible. This was the touch that fixed Marston's thought.

Macbeth was cheated, but he must pay; the powers of evil lied. One

wondered whether it was always like that.

When the curtain fell and the lights went up shortly before the end,

Marston remarked: "After all there were the witches. Lady Macbeth was,

so to speak, unnecessary."

Mabel had indulged him before; indeed, his mood had chimed with hers,

but she thought he had followed this line far enough. His illness had

left a mark, and he sometimes brooded. She laughed when Flora turned.

"Bob's getting to be a dramatic critic and something of a philosopher,"

she said. "Perhaps he'll tell you how he would improve the play."

"You know what I mean," Marston replied good-humoredly. "Aren't a man's

greed and ambition enough to drive him on, without an outside tempter?"

"Without a bad woman to urge him?" Flora suggested.

"When one comes to think of it, a good woman might be as dangerous as

the other," said Marston.

Mabel frowned. She saw where her lover's remark led, but doubted if the

others did. She forced a laugh when Wyndham looked round.

"Bob has a flash of imagination now and then," she said.

"I expect Bob would sooner leave out the witches, now he knows something

about Ghost Leopards and Voodoo," Wyndham replied. "Anyhow, I think the

mummery round the cauldron rather crude; the act was, no doubt, written

to meet the spirit of the times. Temptation by repulsive hags would not

appeal to an up-to-date young man. My notion of a tempter is an urbanely

ironical Mephistopheles."

Marston said nothing. He remembered the Bat's strange, mocking grin; and

then roused himself and laughed. He was getting morbid; the wretched

fever had shaken him. He joked with Flora until the curtain rose and

when it came down on the closing scene resolved to forget the play.

"I've ordered supper. It will brace us up," he said.

They went to a crowded restaurant, and Marston liked the tinkle of

glass, voices, and cheerful laughter, but he shivered when they left the

glittering room and got into the car.

"Put the rug round you before we start," said Mabel.

"I think I will," Marston replied, apologetically. "I feel as if my

temperature was up; malaria has an annoying trick of coming back. When

it does come back, you get moody and pessimistic. Sorry if I bored you

to-night!"

"Perhaps it was malaria, but I wasn't bored," said Mabel, with an

indulgent smile.

CHAPTER III

PETERS' OFFER

Wyndham and Flora were married at a small country church. The morning

was bright and the sun touched the east window with vivid color and

pierced the narrow lancets on the south. Red and green reflections

stained the mosaics inside the chancel rails, but shadows lurked behind

the arches and pillars, for the old building had no clerestory.

Mabel was bridesmaid, Marston was groomsman, and as he waited for a few

moments by the rails he looked about. Commodore Chisholm had numerous

friends, and for the most part Marston knew the faces turned towards the

chancel. He had sailed hard races against some of the men and danced

with their wives and daughters. They were sober English folk, and he was

glad they had come to stamp with their approval his partner's wedding.

Some, however, he could not see, because they sat back in the gloom.

Then he glanced at his companions. He was nervous, but Mabel was marked

by her serene calm. Flora's look was rather fixed, and although she had

not much color, her pose was resolute and proud. Marston wondered

whether she felt she was making something of a plunge; but if she did

so, he knew she would not hesitate. Chisholm's face was quiet and

perhaps a trifle stern; he looked rather old, and Marston imagined him

resigned. The Commodore was frank; one generally knew what he felt. All

three looked typically English, but Wyndham did not. Although his eyes

were very blue and his hair was touched by red, he was different from

the others. His face, as Marston saw it in profile, was thin and in a

way ascetic, but it wore a stamp of recklessness. His pose was strangely

alert and highly strung. There was something exotic about him.

The vicar began the office and Marston remarked with a sense of

annoyance that the church got dark, as if the sun had gone behind a

cloud. He was not superstitious, but he had had enough of gloom, and the

fever had left him with a touch of melancholy. He glanced at Mabel and

felt soothed. Her face was quiet and reverent; she was unostentatiously

religious and her calm confidence banished his doubts. After a few

minutes, the light got stronger, and yielding to a strange impulse, he

looked round. A sunbeam shone through a south window and picked out a

face he knew. Marston moved abruptly and came near forgetting how he was

engaged.

The face stood out, yellow and withered, against the surrounding shadow.

The eyes were fixed on the wedding group and Marston thought their look

ironical, but the bright beam faded and he wondered whether he had been

deceived. It was hard to believe that Peters, whom he had last seen at

the lagoon, was in the church, and Marston hoped he was not. Peters

belonged to the fever-haunted forest; he brought back the gloom and

sense of mystery Bob wanted to forget. There was something strangely

inappropriate about his coming to Harry's wedding.

Wyndham turned his head, although the movement hardly seemed enough to

enable him to look across the church. Marston, however, roused himself,

for he had followed the office, and slipped the ring into his comrade's

hand. Wyndham put it on the book, and then as the vicar gave it back,

let it drop. There was a tinkle as it struck the tiles and, for a

moment, an awkward pause. Flora started and Chisholm frowned, but

Marston picked up the ring and when Wyndham put it on Flora's hand,

tried to feel he had not got a jar. Perhaps he was ridiculous, but he

wished Peters had stayed away and Harry had not dropped the ring.

There was no further mishap, the sun shone out again and as its beams

drove back the shadows the gilded cross above the screen caught the

light and flashed. Mabel looked up. Marston thought her unconscious

movement directed his glance, and he was moved to tenderness and calm.

After the feeling of repugnance Peters had excited, the thing was

strangely significant and he knew the glittering symbol was Mabel's

guiding light.

The vicar stopped. Flora gave Marston her hand in the vestry and he put

his on Wyndham's shoulder as he wished them happiness. In a few minutes

they went out and when Wyndham's car drove off Marston stood by the gate

with Mabel, waiting for theirs. People stood about talking to one

another, and Marston tried to hide his annoyance when a man outside the

group caught his eye. He had not been deceived; the fellow was Peters,

for he smiled.

For a moment Marston hesitated. There was, however, no obvious reason

for his refusing to acknowledge Peters, and he nodded when he advanced.

The latter's clothes were in the latest fashion; he wore light gloves

and very neat varnished shoes. At a little distance he looked like a

prosperous Englishman, but as he came up and took off his hat the sun

touched his yellow, deep-lined face and the curious white tufts in his

hair. Then he looked pinched and shriveled.

"I hardly thought to see you. Indeed, I imagined I had cheated myself,"

Marston remarked.

Peters laughed. "Our meeting is, after all, not strange. I landed a few

days since and stopped to transact some business before I go on to

Hamburg. A paragraph in a newspaper caught my eye, and, having nothing

to do this morning, I thought I'd come to your partner's wedding. Since

I really don't know him well I didn't stop him as he came out."

"Will you be long in town?" Marston asked.

"Another day or two," said Peters. "I must try to look you up."

He stepped back as a car started, and Marston saw no more of him. On the

whole, he thought he had seen enough and was annoyed because Peters was

coming to the office. This, however, was not important and he forgot

about it.

In the afternoon Mabel and he walked across a heathy common that sloped

to the river mouth. The tide was ebbing and thin white lines of surf

curved about the sands. Here and there a wet belt shone with reflections

from the sky; the woods and fields on the western shore were getting

dim, and a long range of hills rose against the fading light. The soft

colors and the hazy distance, where one heard the sea beat on the outer

shoals, were restful to Marston's eyes. He loved the quiet English

landscape, and glancing at Mabel, half-consciously gave thanks because

he was at home.

"Who was the strange little man at the church?" Mabel asked presently.

"Peters," said Marston. "We met him on the Caribbean. Did you think him

strange?"

"I didn't study him. His eyes were strange; they seemed restless and

very keen. The white tufts in his hair were unusual."

"Fever leaves its stamp when you get it often," Marston remarked.

"Besides, I expect the fellow has had some romantic adventures. Anyhow,

he's not a friend of ours. We gave him dinner on board because he was a

white man. That's all."

"I wonder whether Harry saw him, just before he dropped the ring."

"What do you think?" Marston asked with some curiosity.

"I don't know. Harry looked round."

"Oh, well," said Marston. "If Harry did see him, I don't imagine it had

much to do with his dropping the ring."

Mabel gave him a quiet glance. She knew Bob and thought he was trying to

persuade himself, not to cheat her.

"Yet you did not like to see the man!"

"I did not," Marston admitted. "He, so to speak, brought things back;

our agent's dying and the dreams I had when I was ill. Some people

belong to their surroundings. I mean, they stand for the places they

come from, and Peters belongs to the mangrove lagoons. You and Flora

stand for England; spots like this where all's bracing and calm. I think

we'll let Peters go."

"You're very nice," said Mabel, smiling. "If we are going to flatter

each other, you stand for the sea."

"No," said Marston. "The sea's restless, breezy, and sparkling, and I'm

not. You have got a rather dull fellow for a lover."

"Ah," said Mabel quietly, "you are my lover, Bob, and that means much."

She mused while they crossed the heath in the fading light. Bob was not

what he called breezy and he did not sparkle, but she would not have him

other than he was. She had not often seen him angry, but she knew he

could be strongly moved and forces then set in motion were not easily

stopped. Bob was steadfast; this was, perhaps, the proper word. He had a

reserve of strength and tenacity, of which she thought he was not

altogether conscious. She had loved him long and it was significant that

she loved him better than at the beginning.

By and by he looked at her. "I grudge Harry nothing and have much for

which I'm thankful. All the same, I envied him his luck to-day."

"Poor old Bob!" said Mabel "But you know, when I promised----"

He nodded. "I know and of course I'm satisfied. I can't urge you; but

sometimes, like to-day, waiting's hard."

Mabel's eyes were very soft. There was love in her glance, but he got a

hint of tears.

"My dear," she said, "I think you will not be forced to wait very long."

She paused and tried to smile as she resumed: "Never mind, Bob; you

needn't talk! I know your sympathy."

He said nothing, but took her hand, and she felt comforted. Mrs.

Hilliard was a widow and had long been ill, and Bob had known Mabel

would not marry while her mother needed her. At the beginning, he had

urged that he was able to take care of both, and since he was rich

things might be made easier for the invalid if she lived with them.

Mabel, however, was firm, and Bob gave in. He would not argue that her

sense of duty was perhaps mistaken and Mrs. Hillard's refusal might be

selfish. Mabel's strong persuasion was enough for him.

"You will come in and see her? She has been alone all day," Mabel said,

and Marston went.

Mrs. Hilliard sat by the fire in an invalid's chair, and when he entered

gave him a friendly smile. She looked very pinched and fragile and he

thought Mabel's fears were justified. For an hour he talked about the

wedding and other matters as cheerfully as he could, and when he went

Mabel kissed him at the gate.

"You are very good, Bob," she said. "I owe you much and some day I'll

try to pay my debt."

In the morning Marston went to the office and soon afterwards Peters was

shown in. Marston gave him a cigar and they talked about the Caribbean.

"I'm beginning to feel I've had enough," Peters presently remarked.

"Life in the swamps is strenuous and one likes quiet when one's no

longer young."

"On the surface, things looked pretty dull. I felt languid as soon as I

arrived and didn't really wake up until I left."

Peters smiled. "Yet I imagine you found the monotony is sometimes

broken. Besides, you didn't stay long enough to learn that much that's

curious goes on beneath the surface. There's an underworld." He paused

and added meaningly: "On the whole, I think the term is pretty good."

"I was satisfied with the surface. Anyhow, I didn't try to look

beneath," Marston rejoined, with some dryness. "In fact, I'd sooner

leave some things alone."

"A prudent resolve, when one can carry it out! But d'you imagine your

partner controlled his curiosity?"

Marston feared that Wyndham had not, and frowned, because he felt Peters

had meant his remark to be significant. The latter resumed: "Of course,

you can live tranquilly at the old Spanish ports; that is, if you are

sober and resist the dark-skinned senoritas' charms. Perhaps the worst

risk a rash stranger runs is being found in a dark _calle_ with a

jealous half-breed's knife in his back. In order to get hurt, you must

court danger; in the swamps it haunts you. Of course, if you trade in

the regular markets, the profit is not large; but if I could get a good

post at a port with a casino and cafes, I think I'd be satisfied."

"Haven't your employers a job that would suit to offer you?" Marston

asked carelessly.

"They have not. They have been grumbling recently and hinting that I've

got slack. As a matter of fact, they have some grounds. My knowledge of

the business is pretty extensive, but since your partner came on the

scene the goods we want to get have gone to Wyndhams'. I'm now going to

Hamburg to account for this, but doubt if I can do so satisfactorily. My

explanation's rather romantic than plausible."

"Then, you have an explanation?"

Peters smiled. "Yes. It looks as if the Bat had let his old friends go

and taken Wyndham up."

"Ridiculous!" said Marston. "What has the Bat to do with trade? He's not

a merchant or a cultivator."

"For all that, the fellow has power. The President rules the cities, the

_guardias rurales_ the cleared land, but the Bat and the devil rule the

bush. I know half-civilized _Mestizos_ who believe the Bat is the devil.

Anyhow, he's a useful friend."

"He's not my friend," Marston rejoined. "However, if your employers are

not satisfied, I don't see how I can help."

"I have a plan," said Peters. "I know the bush, the negroes, and their

habits, as few white men know them, and my knowledge is worth much to a

merchant house. Well, I'm not greedy and imagine you'd find it worth

while to give me a small partnership; or, if you'd sooner, appoint me

your agent at a port from which I could control the lagoon trade."

Marston looked at him with some surprise. On the whole, he did not like

the fellow and he had no grounds for trusting him.

"I'm afraid I can't agree," he replied. "We have a pretty good agent at

all the ports where we trade, and Wyndham sent a man he was satisfied

about to the lagoon. Our business is not large enough to justify our

taking a new partner."

"The business is extending. Would you like to talk to Wyndham about it?"

"He won't be back for some time, and I expect he'll agree that we don't

need help. I think you had better stick to your Hamburg friends."

"Oh, well," said Peters philosophically, "it looks as if I must drop the

plan, but if you need me later, you know where I can be found. In the

meantime, we'll let it go. When I left, Ramon Larrinaga sent you his

compliments. He's getting an important man; had some part in the plot

that put the new president in power and has, no doubt, claimed his

reward."

"You may give him our congratulations when you go back," Marston

replied, and soon afterwards Peters went off.

Marston smoked a cigarette and reviewed his visitor's remarks. The

fellow had implied that Wyndham had, by some means, gained the Bat's

support, and this jarred. Perhaps it jarred worse because Marston had

tried to banish suspicions that chimed with the hint. Then he imagined

Peters' offer was rather made to Wyndham than to him. Marston meant to

urge his partner to refuse. He did not want to see Peters again, but

doubted. The fellow was cunning and obstinate. By-and-by Marston threw

away his cigarette and rang for his clerk. He would not bother about

Peters until he was forced. In fact, if Peters did not come back, he was

not sure he would tell Wyndham about it at all.

CHAPTER IV

THE LOST EXPLORERS

The days were getting longer and although the evening was cold Marston

rejoiced that winter had gone. He had worked hard at the office until

Wyndham's return from his honeymoon, and now he was glad to get on the

water again. Putting down his oars, he let _Red Rose_'s dinghy drift,

because he doubted if the tide had risen enough to carry him across the

sands. A bitter wind blew up the estuary, where belts of shining water

wound among the shoals, and some distance astern _Red Rose_ rode at her

moorings in a sheltered pool. For half a mile, sand and shallow water

ran between Marston and the beach.

He had brought the yacht round from a neighboring river mouth where the

smoke of a busy port blackened her gear, and had since been occupied on

board. Now he was pleasantly tired, hungry, and braced by the cold. He

knew no amusement that gave him as much satisfaction as working on board

a yacht. In fact, if one went about the thing properly, it was really a

scientific job.

The dinghy grounded, and letting her bump across the sand, he lighted

his pipe and reviewed his changed life since Wyndham won the Commodore's

cup. Things had begun to change then. For the most part, he had worked

hard; at first as _Columbine_'s mate and supercargo, afterwards as a

merchant's clerk. Although he had invested a good sum, he was really a

clerk. Sometimes he stated his views and Wyndham listened politely; but

when one came to think about it, Harry did not tell him much. Then he

did not altogether understand transactions in which the house engaged.

For all that, Marston was not hurt. He admitted that his judgment was

not worth much. He had not, like Harry, been trained for business. In

fact, it was something of a relief when Harry came home and he got rid

of his responsibility, although he thought he had, on the whole, managed

rather well. Recently, he had taken things easier and Wyndham had

encouraged him to do so. He suggested Marston's going off for a few days

now and then, and told him not to bother about the office while he

fitted out _Red Rose_. Harry was a good sort, and since he did not need

him, Marston was glad to occupy himself with the yacht.

By-and-by the dinghy floated off the shoal and Marston saw the Welsh

hills on the other shore were getting dim and blue. He was cold and

drove the little boat briskly across the rippling water. Carrying her up

the beach, he went to an inn where he left his yachting clothes and then

set out across the heathy common for Mrs. Hilliard's house. Mabel gave

him tea by the fire and when it got dark outside they talked in the

flickering glow. Flora, Wyndham and Chisholm were coming to dinner, but

would not arrive yet, and Marston lounged contentedly in a big easy

chair.

"I don't know if I'm tired or lazy," he remarked. "Anyhow, it's very

nice to sit by the fire with you."

"When you're lazy?" said Mabel, with a smile.

"Always," Marston declared. "However, you get a particular satisfaction

from loafing after you have had a good day."

"On board the yacht? I'm not jealous, Bob, but you haven't been to the

office much."

"That is so," Marston admitted. "I was rather keen about the business;

in fact, I'm keen yet. I like to know how things are going, even if I

can't help; but the boat's a temptation and Harry doesn't need me all

the time."

"Do you know how things are going?"

"For the most part," Marston replied, with a touch of embarrassment,

because he sometimes felt he did not know as much as he would like. "I

don't bother about small particulars."

"Has Harry stated he did not need you? Or did you imagine this, and make

it an excuse for a holiday?"

Marston pondered for a moment or two. He did not altogether approve

Mabel's line, perhaps because it excited doubts he had tried to banish.

"Harry knows I like pottering about the boat," he said. "He has hinted

that I needn't stick to business quite so close now he's in control.

After all, there's hardly enough work for two partners."

Mabel let this go. She knew Bob and thought he was rather trying to

justify Wyndham than to find an excuse for his own laziness. It looked

as if he suspected his partner was willing to get rid of him now and

then. Moreover, Bob was not lazy.

"Harry's occupied pretty closely, is he not?" she said. "I have thought

he looks tired."

"That is so," agreed Marston, who had recently noted a hint of strain

about his comrade. Wyndham was sometimes impatient; his gay carelessness

had gone. "After all, managing a business like ours is not an easy job,"

he resumed. "Things, however, are going well and I imagine I made a

sound investment. In fact, we're getting rich."

A car rolled up the drive and Mabel rang for lights. Flora, Wyndham, and

Chisholm came in and soon afterwards dinner was served. Mrs. Hilliard

did not come down and Mabel, sitting at the top of the table, studied

her guests. Flora looked charming; she had since her marriage got a

touch of dignity. Mabel thought she was happy, but now and then she gave

her husband a quick glance. Wyndham was thin, and although he talked and

laughed, when he was quiet the jaded look Mabel had remarked was plain.

She knew Bob's mind and his puzzled uneasiness about his partner that he

would not own. Chisholm, she thought, was altogether satisfied, and the

grounds for his satisfaction were obvious. Wyndhams' was prospering, and

his consent to his daughter's marriage was justified. Still, Chisholm

did not see very far.

When they got up Mabel gave them coffee by the fire in the hall and told

the men to smoke. Chisholm, feeling for his tobacco, pulled a piece of

newspaper from his pocket.

"Have you read the news to-day?" he asked Wyndham.

"I have not," Wyndham replied. "One may be able to study newspapers at

the office of a navigation board, but my job is not a sinecure. Besides,

Bob deserted me, and I'd hardly time for lunch."

"Then, I've something that may interest you. I cut the thing out, in

case you missed it. It's headed, 'A tragic story of tropical

adventure.'"

Wyndham looked up, rather sharply, and held out his hand for the

cutting, but Marston said to Chisholm, "Suppose you read it. Then we'll

all hear."

"Very well," said Chisholm, who polished his spectacles and began:

"'Some time since, a small exploring expedition started inland from the

Salinas coast of the Caribbean.'" He stopped and asked: "Isn't that the

country you are exploiting?"

"Yes," said Wyndham, with some dryness. "It's not a healthy country for

white explorers, unless they're acclimatized. But go on."

"'The party consisted of a commercial botanist, a student of tropical

diseases, a mining expert, and a trader stationed on the coast.'"

"Peters!" said Wyndham, looking at Marston. "No doubt, he persuaded the

others; I expected the fellow would try to get on our track."

"That's the name," said Chisholm and resumed:

"'The party engaged a number of half-breed porters and set off, although

they had been warned the bush country was disturbed. The belt of swampy

forest was penetrated by the Spaniards four hundred years since, but it

is, for the most part, little known by white men, and its _Mestizo_ and

negro inhabitants dislike strangers.'"

"The newspaper man seems remarkably well informed," Wyndham observed. "I

expect he has a correspondent in the neighborhood."

"'When some time had gone and no news of the explorers reached the

coast, the government got alarmed,'" Chisholm went on. "'Senor

Larrinaga, the head official for the district, fitted out a rescue

expedition and searched the forest. They found one survivor, the trader

Peters, exhausted by suffering.'"

"Peters said Ramon Larrinaga was getting an important man," Marston

interposed. "Sorry, sir! please don't stop."

"'Peters' story was tragic. The porters had got uneasy soon after the

start, but their employers forced them to go on, until one night, when

the party stopped at an empty village, they vanished. In the morning,

Peters left his companions, with the object of overtaking the porters,

but lost their track, and returning in two or three days, found the

others dead. They were in a native hut and he saw no indication that

violence had been used. Since the party carried their own provisions, it

did not look as if they had been poisoned. Senor Larrinaga had some

trouble to reach the village. The half-breeds and negroes in the forest

belt are turbulent and rebellious and the rescue party was small. He,

however, pushed on and when he arrived found the hut had been burned and

nobody about. Two of the explorers had previously undertaken the

development of rubber and mining concessions for merchants of this city,

by whom their mysterious fate is much regretted.'"

Chisholm put down the cutting and the others were silent for a few

moments. Wyndham looked disturbed, but lighted a cigarette, rather

deliberately.

"Peters ought not to have taken those fellows into the bush. He knew the

risk," he said.

"The others probably knew it, since the paper states they had done such

work before," Marston replied.

"I think not. Anyhow, they did not know all the risk. Peters did. It's

significant that he escaped."

"You don't imply that he ought not to have escaped?" Chisholm said, with

some surprise.

"Certainly not. Still the fellow's cunning and greedy. I expect he got

up the expedition, and he gambled with his companions' lives. If he had

won, I don't imagine they would have got much of the reward."

Mabel studied Wyndham. It was plain that he did not like Peters and she

thought he had some grounds for resenting his attempt to explore the

country. Wyndham was a trader and Peters, no doubt, a rival, but she did

not think he was altogether moved by commercial jealousy. Somehow the

thing went deeper than this. His voice was level, but she saw his calm

was forced. Mabel remembered that he had taken some time to light his

cigarette.

"The half-breeds seem to be a lot of savage brutes," Chisholm remarked.

"What stock do they spring from? The Carib?"

"The African strain is strongest, and pure negroes are numerous. In

Central and part of South America, it's hard to fix the origin of the

population. About the cities, they've made some progress and a number of

their institutions are good. In the swamps I know best, they have gone

back to rules of life the slaves brought from Africa long since. If you

want to understand them, that's important."

"Do you think the Bat had anything to do with the explorers getting

killed?" Marston asked.

"We don't know they were killed, and the Bat's rather a bogey of

yours," Wyndham replied. "Anyhow, from one point of view, perhaps his

efforts to keep out Peters and his gang were justified. The country

belongs to the Bat and his friends; their rules are not ours, but they

suit the people who use them, and I expect they know what often happens

to a colored race when white men take control. Semi-civilization and

industrial servitude, forced on you for others' benefit, are a poor

exchange for liberty."

"You mean their leaders know?" said Mabel. "They would lose their power

when the white men came?"

Wyndham said nothing for a moment and Marston imagined he was getting

impatient. Then Flora gave him a puzzled glance and he smiled.

"Did the fellow you thought the Bat look very powerful, Bob?" he asked.

"In a way, he did not," said Marston. "He was a dirty, ragged old

impostor--and yet I don't know. Perhaps it was his grin, but you got a

hint that he was a bigger man than he looked. There was something about

him----"

"Something Mephistophelian?" Wyndham suggested with a twinkle.

"But Mephistopheles was rather a gentleman," Flora remarked.

"That's it! You have given me the clew I was feeling for," said Marston.

"You felt the old fellow might have been a gentleman long since and had

degenerated. Now I come to think of it, his confounded grin was

ironical; as if he knew your point of view and laughed at it. In fact, I

imagine he laughed at himself; at his claim to be a magician and the

tricks he used. A cynical brute, perhaps, but he was not a fool."

"Aren't you getting romantic, Bob?" Flora asked.

Marston said nothing. He had seen Wyndham's frown and imagined he had

had enough. For a few moments Mabel studied both. She saw Bob wanted to

talk about something else, but she did not mean to help him yet. His

portrait of the old mulatto had given her ground for thought. For one

thing, it had disturbed Wyndham, and she wondered why. She was not

deceived when Wyndham laughed.

"As a rule, Bob is not romantic, but he was ill before he left the

lagoon and fever excites one's imagination. We'll let it go. Did you

shift the ballast they stowed forward of _Red Rose_'s mast, Bob?"

"I did. We moved half a ton of iron and she trims much better with it

aft," Marston replied.

Then they talked about the yacht until Mabel got up and took them to the

drawing-room. She was curious, but in the meantime did not think her

curiosity would be satisfied. Bob knew no more than he had told and it

was plain that Wyndham meant to use reserve.

CHAPTER V

WYNDHAM CHANGES HIS PLAN

There was no wind, the sun was hot, and the reflection of _Red Rose_'s

mast and rigging trembled on the shining sea. She rode at anchor in a

quiet bay, near the woods that rolled down to the smooth white boulders.

Dark firs checkered the fresh green of the beeches and the bronzy yellow

of the new oak leaves. The tide flowed smoothly past the yacht, and

across the strait a lonely cloud threw a soft blue shadow on the scarred

face of a lofty crag. Now and then the echoes of a blasting shot rolled

among the hills. Flora sat in the yacht's cockpit. She wore a pale

yellow dress that harmonized with her brown eyes and hair. Wyndham lay

on the counter, smoking a cigarette, and when she thought he did not see

her Flora gave him a careful glance. After a few days at sea, Harry's

face was getting brown and he was losing his jaded look, but he was thin

and she did not like the way his mouth was set. He had been working hard

for some time, and now he had taken a holiday the strain he had borne

did not relax. Flora did not altogether understand this, because things

were going well with Wyndhams'.

She looked up the strait. Not far off an old castle stood upon a lawn

where a long green point ran out, and the spot had romantic memories for

her. She had promised to marry Harry on the lawn, one summer night when

the yacht's lanterns twinkled in the roadstead and colored fires burned

on the castle walls. Wyndham lifted his head, and smiled when he saw

where she was looking.

"It is not very long since, scarcely twelve months, but much has

happened in the meantime," he said.

"How did you know--?" Flora asked and blushed.

"Your thoughts were in your eyes; gentle thoughts. It looks as if you

were not disillusioned yet!"

"I'm not," said Flora, firmly. "For all that, I don't know if I like you

when you're cynical."

"It's a relapse, or perhaps a reaction. Living up to your standard is a

bit of a strain now and then."

"Would you sooner I lowered the standard?"

"Not at all," said Wyndham, with a twinkle. "Keep it as high as you can

for yourself, so long as you are willing to make some allowances for

me."

"That's a man's point of view," Flora remarked. "However, on the whole,

you're very good. I really don't get many jars."

She studied him and mused. Harry was all, or very nearly all, she had

thought, and she was happy. Sometimes, perhaps, she wished he would give

her a little more of his confidence, about the office for example. The

control of the extending business was not easy; she saw he had cares he

did not talk about. He was a handsome man and she approved the

fastidious neatness of his white yachting clothes, but he looked

fine-drawn. Flora rather liked this half-ascetic look; Harry had no

gross passions to draw him away from her, although she sometimes feared

she had a rival in his ambition. He was ambitious and did not tell her

much about his plans.

She looked about. Near the point, a little varnished boat shone in the

strong light. Bob had taken Mabel for a row in the dinghy.

"I'm sorry for them," she remarked.

"Sorry for whom?" said Wyndham, and turned his head. "Oh, yes; it's hard

for Bob! Mabel, no doubt, gets some satisfaction from feeling she's

doing what she ought. I, myself, don't know if she ought or not, but

this doesn't matter so long as Bob's persuaded. Well, I suppose she's

worth waiting for and Bob is patient."

"You are not patient," Flora rejoined. "You refused to wait."

Wyndham gave her a twinkling smile. "No; I hadn't Bob's advantages. I

seized my chance, and made a plunge. So, I think, did you!"

"After all, I wasn't very rash. I knew you better than my friends; but

I'll own to feeling proud because they're all satisfied. You were not

very long persuading them."

"It cost me something," said Wyndham quietly. "However, we'll let it go.

I mean to have a lazy day and brace up for our climbing trip in the

morning. I sent a message that we would need a car."

Flora nodded and glanced at a peak that rose behind the hills across the

sparkling strait. She was a mountaineer and sometimes wondered whether

she liked best the high rocks or the sea. Then she turned and noted a

long plume of smoke that rolled across the woods.

"The early boat from town," she said.

A steamer swung round the point and headed for the yacht, piling the

oily water in a wave at her bows. The thud of her paddles nearly

drowned the music of the band on board, and confused echoes rang among

the trees. A group of passengers forward sang lustily and a row leaned

against the rail.

"She'll pass pretty close," said Wyndham. "I wonder whether anybody we

know is on board."

Flora picked up the glasses and Wyndham, resting on his elbow, turned

his head. The steamer drove on, a feather of foam shooting up her stem,

and Wyndham languidly studied the faces of the passengers. Then, when

she was level with the yacht, he moved abruptly, for a short, thin man

with a yellow face sat on a bench, looking at _Red Rose_.

"Do you see somebody? Shall I give you the glasses?" Flora asked.

"No," said Wyndham, sharply. "Hold fast! Look out for her wash!"

Flora seized the coaming and the white wave from the steamer's paddles

lifted the yacht. _Red Rose_ plunged violently and when she steadied,

the passenger boat was slowing near the pier. Flora put down the glasses

and turned to Wyndham. She had seen the little man on the bench and

imagined Harry was studying him. The fellow looked like a foreigner and

she did not like his face. Yet it was strange his being on board the

steamer had annoyed Harry. She thought it had annoyed him, although the

need to warn her about the wash perhaps accounted for the sharpness of

his voice.

"I saw all I wanted," Wyndham resumed, with a touch of grimness. "I

thought you might drop the glasses when the wave struck us. If I wasn't

lazy, I'd send a complaint to the office about their driving their

boats full speed across a yacht anchorage. Has the splash hurt your

dress?"

Flora looked down and shook the sparkling drops from the thin material.

"This stuff won't spoil. A dress that will spoil is no use for yachting;

I've been to sea before."

Soon afterwards the others returned. They had promised to lunch with

Chisholm at the hotel where Flora and Mabel had a room, but by and by

Wyndham remarked:

"I feel rather dull and think I won't go ashore. Perhaps you had better

stay, Bob, and we'll fit the new rigging screws. The others look as if

the hooks might draw in a hard breeze."

"Stay if you like," said Flora. "You have come for a holiday. Are you

sure you feel equal to our climb in the morning?"

Wyndham hesitated. "I'd hate to disappoint you, but I am lazy. I found

the scramble up the big gully hard enough the last time I went along the

ridge, and I hadn't been to Africa then. After close work in an office,

three thousand feet and some awkward rock climbing is a stiff pull."

Flora looked at the others. Harry was tired and rather slack, and she

wanted to indulge him. It was something of a relief when Marston played

up.

"We came for a cruise, not to climb hills," he said. "Let's stop and go

fishing in the dinghy."

"There aren't many fish and digging bait's a bother," Wyndham replied.

"I've a better plan. The wind will turn east at sunset and there is a

moon. Suppose we run down the coast to Carmeltown and see the Irish

boats finish their cross-channel race?"

The others agreed and in the evening _Red Rose_ left the anchorage. It

was getting dark when they hoisted sail, but Marston, who occupied with

the halyards, thought he heard a distant shout. Looking round, he saw a

dinghy near the point.

"Is that somebody hailing us?" he asked.

"I don't think so," said Wyndham. "There are other boats about. But be

careful; you've got the topsail yard foul of the lift."

Marston pulled the yard clear, and dropping down the channel through the

sands, they stole out to sea. A light east wind blew behind them, the

water sparkled as the moon rose, and shadowy woods and dark hills opened

out and faded on their port side. The night was warm, the sea ran in

long undulations, wrinkled by the breeze. In the distance one heard surf

break upon the reefs, and now and then a steamer with throbbing engines

went by. Wyndham lounged at the tiller, Marston and Mabel sat under the

booby hatch and talked quietly, while Flora, in the cockpit sang a song.

_Red Rose_, lurching gently with all sail set, headed for the west.

"Harry's plan is good," Flora remarked when she finished her song.

"There are two grand things, the sea and the mountains; but, on a night

like this, I like the sea best."

"Then you ought to be happy and I hope you are," rejoined Mabel. "The

trouble about dividing your affection between two objects is, when you

get one you feel you want the other."

"That is so now and then," Flora agreed. "When you can't have both, you

are forced to choose and choosing's generally hard."

"You let Harry choose for you. Perhaps it's a good plan, but I don't

know if I'll use it much with Bob."

Flora laughed and thought Mabel's remark was justified. It looked as if

Harry had meant to leave the strait, although he had said nothing about

this until the passenger boat arrived. Anyhow, it did not matter. She

was glad to indulge him and it was a splendid night for a sail. Flora

was happy and began to sing again.

The wind freshened as they crossed a rock-fringed bay where a famous

emigrant ship went down. Sparkling ripples flecked the swell, which

presently began to roll in short angry waves. The rigging hummed, a

foaming wake ran astern, and a white ridge stood up about _Red Rose_'s

bows. After a time, Marston and the paid hand set a smaller jib and

hauled down the topsail, and when they had finished Bob stood on deck

looking about. The sea ahead was white and _Red Rose_ rolled hard when

the rising combers picked her up. Astern, the dinghy sheered about and

lifted half her length out of the water when she felt the strain on the

rope. Once or twice she surged forward on a wave, as if she were going

to leap on board. Marston had seen enough and jumped into the cockpit.

"It's freshening up," he said. "The tide will be running strong round

Carmel when we get there and the sea breaks awkwardly in the race. If

you're going on, we'll heave down a reef and pull the dinghy on deck."

Wyndham looked at his watch. "I don't know if I'm going on or not. The

flood's running now and there are two nasty races before we reach

Carmel. Suppose we make for Porth Gwynedd? I don't see much use in

getting wet."

"The Porth's an awkward harbor to enter in the dark," Marston remarked

thoughtfully.

"I know the way," said Wyndham. "Mrs. Evans will give the girls a room;

we have got her up late at night before. Ask them what they think?"

Flora and Mabel agreed, Wyndham changed his course, and the dark hills

they were following got nearer. By and by Marston hauled down the

staysail and stood on the deck forward, studying the forbidding coast

Wyndham steered for.

A narrow strip of gloom, piercing the hills, indicated a valley, and at

its end a dim red light blinked. One could see no entrance. Shadowy

rocks dropped to the water, and a line of foam marked the course of the

tide across a reef. A white belt of surf glimmered without a break at

the foot of the cliffs.

Wyndham, however, did not hesitate and Flora glanced at him with quiet

confidence. The moonlight touched his face and she liked his calm. One

could trust Harry when there was a strain; she was proud of his pluck

and steady nerve. Besides, he looked strangely handsome and virile as he

controlled the plunging yacht.

When the white turmoil on the reef was close ahead she saw a break in

the rocks. The gap was dark and very narrow; spouting foam played about

its mouth. Wyndham signed to the fisher lad at the mainsheet, blocks

rattled, and _Red Rose_, swerving, listed over until her lee deck was in

the foam. Showers of spray blew across her, she was sailing very fast,

and Flora knew she would soon be broken on the rocks if Wyndham missed

the harbor mouth.

They drove past the reef, the long boom lurched across, and _Red Rose_

rolled violently. Dark rocks towered above her mast and the sails

thrashed and filled in the conflicting gusts, but the water got smooth

and the harbor opened up. Presently Marston jumped to the foot of the

mast and the peak of the mainsail swung down.

"Starboard!" he shouted. "Look out for the perch!"

Flora looked under the sail and saw a tall post with iron stays running

from it into the water. She wondered whether the flapping canvas hid it

from Wyndham, because he was slow to move the helm.

"Starboard it is," he answered after a moment or two, leaning hard on

the tiller as he pushed it across.

There was a heavy shock, something cracked and broke, and a thick iron

bar ground against the yacht's side. She slowed but did not stop and

when she forged ahead again Marston leaped forward.

"Bobstay's gone and bowsprit's broken at the cap!" he shouted.

"Down sail! Ready with the anchor," said Wyndham quietly.

Marston dropped the anchor under the bows, running chain rattled, and

_Red Rose_ stopped. They pulled up the half-swamped dinghy and when they

had thrown out the water Marston took a rope to a pier. Wyndham went

forward and occupied himself with the wreck at the bows until Marston

returned.

"We'll need a new bowsprit and she's drawn the stay-bolt on the stem,"

he said. "I think that's all, but it will keep us here two or three

days. Perhaps you had better see if you can wake Mrs. Evans before we

land the girls."

Marston pulled up the harbor and returning after a time said Mrs. Evans

was getting a room ready. Flora and Mabel got on board the dinghy and

when Marston rowed them to the steps Mabel remarked: "I suppose Harry

couldn't see the perch?"

"He could hear me shout," said Marston. "I made noise enough. If he'd

shoved his helm over, instead of looking for the perch, we'd have gone

past. I don't quite understand it, because Harry's not often slow.

However, a new bowsprit doesn't cost much; the only trouble is, we'll

have to stay while somebody makes it."

Flora said nothing, although she was somewhat puzzled. On the whole, she

imagined Harry had not looked for the perch; the sail was in his way. He

was slow to move the helm and she thought this strange. All the same, it

was not important, and she talked to Mabel about the Welsh landlady as

they went to the inn.

CHAPTER VI

PETERS RENEWS HIS OFFER

Red Rose remained in port for a week. Wyndham needed a stay and

fastenings for the new bowsprit, and although the Welsh ship-chandler

could supply him with galvanized iron articles he sent to Southampton

for copper. Marston thought this curious, but Harry was fastidious about

the boat and for use in salt water copper was better than iron. The

party, however, was not bored. Porth Gwynedd, with its small slate

houses standing between the clear, green water and the quarries that

scarred the face of a hill, was picturesque. The breeze was light and

warm, and sunshine sparkled on the sea. They went fishing, swam about a

sheltered cove, and climbed the rocks. Wyndham's mood was cheerful and

Flora was content. She thought Harry was recovering from the strain; a

rest was all he needed and she was glad she had persuaded him to make

the cruise.

When the new bowsprit was fitted they set off again along the coast and

stopped at another rock-bound port. A summer hotel stood by a cove

outside the little town, and a day or two after their arrival Marston

and Wyndham lounged on the terrace by the water at the end of the lawn.

The spot was sheltered by a tall cliff, and a thick shrubbery ran

between the grass and terrace. Flora and Mabel occupied a bench in a

nook cut out of the thick foliage. The sun was hot, and all was very

quiet but for the drowsy splash of water on the rocks and the

intermittent rustle of leaves.

"I like this spot," said Flora. "I have enjoyed the cruise. There's

something about the sea that soothes one."

"Do you need soothing?" Mabel asked.

Flora smiled, a rather thoughtful smile. "Not in a way. I've good

grounds for being satisfied; but I had begun to get disturbed about

Harry. He works too hard. No doubt he's forced to bother about his

business, but he looked thin and was sometimes moody."

"He has done too much," Mabel agreed. "Bob tells me things are going

remarkably well for Wyndhams'. All the same, I expect it has cost Harry

some effort."

"Harry does not grudge the effort," said Flora. "I grudge it for him. It

was mainly for my sake he went abroad and overtaxed his strength in an

unhealthy climate in order to make Wyndhams' prosperous." She stopped

and looked up, knitting her brows. "Here is the little man I saw on

board the steamer! I wonder what he wants."

Mabel studied the man who crossed the lawn. She remembered that she had

seen him at Flora's wedding. His face was yellow and wrinkled, and

although he wore light summer clothes made in the latest English fashion

there was something foreign about him. He went towards the shrubbery

with quick resolute steps.

"It's Peters, somebody Bob and Harry met abroad," Mabel remarked. "No

doubt he's looking for them; they're on the terrace not far off."

"It's strange, but I feel I'd sooner he hadn't come," said Flora with a

frown.

The man vanished behind the shrubs and a few moments afterwards Wyndham,

lighting a cigarette on the terrace, dropped the match.

"Peters!" he exclaimed.

"Hallo!" said Marston, who turned and gave the newcomer an unfriendly

glance. "We didn't expect you."

Peters sat down on a bench. "All the same, I have followed you along the

coast for a week. Felt I needed a change after my adventures with the

exploring party, which I dare say you heard about. Business was slack,

and I had a dispute with my employers. I resolved to give up my post,

caught a Royal Mail boat, and here I am."

"I don't see why you followed us," said Marston, coldly.

"Then I must explain. Some time since, I suggested your giving me a

partnership. The plan has some extra advantages now."

"The advantages are not very obvious," Marston rejoined.

"Let me state them," said Peters, coolly. "The back country behind the

lagoon is disturbed; there are indications that the negroes and

half-breeds mean to rebel and Ramon Larrinaga is resolved to put them

down. It's possible he may do so, but I doubt."

"I don't know if this is much of an argument for our extending our

business in the neighborhood. But why do you doubt Don Ramon's ability

to keep order?"

"It's an argument for your putting a man who knows the country in

control. If a rebellion breaks out, there will be opportunities for

business such as one seldom gets; that is, if the situation's cleverly

handled. But we'll let this go in the meantime. Larrinaga has a cunning

antagonist who is much stronger than he thinks."

"You mean the Bat?"

Peters nodded. "I expect you have heard about the black Napoleon who

founded a negro state in the Antilles? Well, it's not impossible the Bat

will make himself as powerful as the other."

"Ridiculous!" said Marston. "Such things can't be done again; the times

have changed."

"I wonder whether Wyndham thinks it ridiculous. He's better informed

than you," Peters said meaningly.

Marston turned to Wyndham, but he said nothing. His face was set and he

looked as if he tried to brace himself.

"You had an example of the Bat's power not long since," Peters went on.

"My exploring companions were poisoned, but not before the tropical

diseases man had made some interesting discoveries. Although the

swamp-belt is unhealthy, malarial fever is not so common as some people

think. In fact, it does not account for all the fatal sickness."

"Yet strangers die from fever and among the half-breeds the mortality is

large."

"That is so," Peters agreed. "All the same, my notion is, it's better to

study Obeah than medicine, and, if you want to enjoy good health,

cultivate the friendship of the Bat. He knows how to get rid of people

he disapproves."

"The brute ought to be shot! However, I don't see what this has got to

do with our giving you a share in our business."

"I think your partner sees," said Peters, meaningly, and Wyndham

advanced a few steps with his fist clenched. His eyes shone and the

veins on his forehead swelled; but when Marston thought he would seize

the other he stopped a yard or two off.

"How much do you know?" he asked in a hoarse voice.

"Nearly all, I think," Peters replied, and turned to Marston. "The Bat

is clever and knows how to use the natural products of the swamps. In

fact, I imagine some of his discoveries would surprise our doctors. He

cannot, however, make all he needs, and somebody has supplied him with

arms and cartridges, besides chemicals and drugs in use in civilized

countries. It's sometimes an advantage to cure your friends as well as

destroy your antagonists, and the power of an up-to-date Obeah man is

not altogether founded on magic."

"Who has supplied him?" Marston asked, with strange and horrible

misgivings.

Peters smiled. "You were very dull for some time, but I think you begin

to see. Well, I suppose you can comfort yourself with the reflection

that when you shared the profit you didn't know how it was earned."

Marston turned and struggled for control when he saw Wyndham's face. The

sweat stood on the latter's forehead and he shrank from his comrade's

glance.

"Is this true, Harry?" Marston asked. "Have we been backing that

devilish mulatto?"

"You know now," said Wyndham, with forced quietness. "It looks as if you

had got a nasty knock. I'd hoped you would not find out."

Marston tried to pull himself together. He must be calm, but calm was

hard. Peters gave him a mocking smile.

"There's something yet. The Bat is not a mulatto."

"Not a mulatto?" said Marston dully. "What is he then?"

"A white man. If you're not satisfied, ask your partner. He knows him

best."

"Who is the Bat, Harry?"

"Rupert Wyndham," Wyndham answered and turned his head.

For a moment or two Marston said nothing, and then his lethargy

vanished. Horror gave way to fury and he clenched his hand as he turned

to Peters.

"You have shot your bolt and missed," he said. "You're a cunning brute,

but all the same a fool. Now get off, or I'll throw you over the wall."

Peters hesitated. His surprise was plain, and Wyndham's tense face

softened to a grim smile. Peters had not reckoned on Bob. The latter

advanced upon him threateningly.

"Did you think you could blackmail us?" he resumed with a hoarse laugh.

"That we'd take you for a partner in order to keep you silent while we

got rich? The thing's ridiculous! Now you begin to understand this,

aren't you going?"

Peters said nothing and went. His mistake was obvious; he might have

forced Wyndham to accept his terms, but he had misjudged Marston. When

he had gone, Marston sat down, rather limply, and there was silence for

a few minutes.

"Well?" said Wyndham at length.

Marston looked up. "I have got a knock, but the thing's done and there's

no use in calling myself a careless fool. For all that, I ought to have

seen what was going on; I'm a partner in the house."

"And if you had seen?" Wyndham asked.

"I'd have stopped the business and brought you away."

"It's possible. You're a resolute fellow, Bob. But what are you going to

do about it now?"

"Put things straight; as far as money can put them straight," said

Marston, quietly. "The cost doesn't matter. It's lucky I am rich."

"Then you don't mean to break the partnership and give me up?"

"Certainly not," said Marston in a surprised voice. "We are partners for

good and bad, and Mabel is Flora's friend. When we started for Africa,

she told me my job was to stand by you."

Wyndham laughed, a bitter laugh. "It looks as if I didn't cheat Mabel

when I cheated all the rest. But you had better let me go before your

staunchness costs you too much."

"I'm going to stick to you," Marston declared. "I undertook the job;

there's no more to be said." He paused and resumed quietly: "How did you

get into Rupert Wyndham's power?"

Wyndham's grimness vanished. He looked embarrassed and moved. "You're a

very good sort, Bob. I don't know if I did get into his power; anyhow,

not at first. I rather think ambition carried me away. You have not

known poverty; I doubt if you'll understand."

"I'll try," said Marston, and Wyndham went on:

"The house was bankrupt when I got control, and I was in love with

Flora. Perhaps you think it was dishonorable to tell her so. Well, I

haven't your scruples and we Wyndhams like a risk. The worst was, I let

her run a risk she didn't know. We met the Bat at the lagoon and he

showed me how I could get rich. He knew me; I didn't know him at the

beginning. Can't you see the situation? I'd won the girl I loved, but I

must support my wife. I couldn't force her to bear hardship because she

loved me, and, for her sake, I must satisfy her friends. Well, I saw and

seized my chance, and almost before I knew I'd gone so far I could not

draw back."

"Did you want to draw back?" Marston asked.

Wyndham gave him a curious smile. "You're cleverer than people think,

Bob. Sometimes I was sorry I had begun, but I imagine I would not have

stopped if I could. I meant to get rich; to give Flora a high place,

and--though the statement looks ironical--to justify myself. Well, I

went on until bad luck sent Peters to pull me up."

Marston pondered for a moment or two. "Now I understand why the witches

in _Macbeth_ made me think about the Bat; they tempted him with lying

promises. But I'm not much of a philosopher and we have the Bat to

reckon on. Peters doesn't count."

"Doesn't he count?" Wyndham asked.

"Not at all," said Marston. "When he told me his secret, he lost the

power to bully you. The fellow's a fool; he thought me greedy."

"But he can tell others, Larrinaga, for example."

"That's not important," said Marston quietly. "We don't want to earn

more money by helping the Bat. We're going to put things straight, and

if Larrinaga's government has a just claim on us, we must pay."

"After all, the Bat's my uncle," Wyndham remarked.

"Yes," said Marston. "It complicates things. We must go out again and

get him away."

"Get him away? The man is powerful. I doubt if the government can put

him down."

"For all that we're going to try."

"You're an obstinate fellow, Bob. We'll talk about it again. There is

somebody else Peters might tell."

"Flora? He'll be too late. You must tell her now."

For a moment or two Wyndham's mouth set firm and the sweat stood on his

forehead. Then he said quietly, "It will be a hard job, desperately

hard; all the same, I suppose it can't be put off. Rupert Wyndham and

the powers he stands for have cheated me, but I must pay."

Marston made a sign of agreement. "When you have paid, you're free, and

can begin again."

Then he turned and saw Flora in the narrow path between the bushes. Her

face was white, but her eyes were gentle when she looked at him. "Thank

you, Bob! We owe you much," she said.

Marston pulled himself together and gave her a friendly smile. Then he

touched Wyndham's arm, as if to encourage him, and left them alone.

CHAPTER VII

WYNDHAM PLEADS GUILTY

When Marston had gone Flora sat down on the bench. She was pale and

trembled. Wyndham, looking very grim, leaned against the wall. They were

quiet for a moment or two, and then he asked:

"How much did you hear?"

"I heard enough," said Flora, with an effort for calm. "I don't

understand it all, but I must understand. I heard Bob's voice, sharp and

angry, and came to see if you were quarreling with the strange little

man. Then I stopped where the shrubs are thick. Perhaps I oughtn't----"

"It doesn't matter," Wyndham replied. "Bob urged that you must be told

and I think I meant to tell you anyhow. When one is found out, it's

better to plead guilty. Well, what do you want to know?"

Flora turned her head. His stern coldness hurt. She thought he feared

her judgment would be merciless. Harry did not know her yet.

"Well?" he said again.

"I must know all. You helped the man they call the Bat? You sent him

goods he needed; drugs among other things, although you knew he would

use some to poison people and make the superstitious negroes think him a

magician?"

"Yes," said Wyndham. "At least, I gave him drugs. I don't altogether

know how he used the stuff."

"He poisoned the explorers who went into the bush."

"It's possible," said Wyndham. "I think that's all."

"Still you knew he was cunning and cruel. You knew he killed people who

wouldn't obey him and he used magic."

"I don't know much about Voodoo and can't state if it's magic or tricks.

However, I imagine the Bat did use it against people who disputed his

rule."

"He gave you valuable goods; you were getting rich," Flora resumed. Then

she paused and added in a gentler voice: "He gave you pearls; but you

sent me none, although Bob brought some for Mabel. You said they were

unlucky."

"It looks as if I was a romantic sentimentalist. Anyhow, I didn't want

you to wear pearls I got from the Bat."

"Yet you were willing to trade with him! You gave him your support!"

"I did," said Wyndham grimly. "For a tempting price. Now my luck has

turned and I won't get the price. My reward has vanished when it was in

my hands. Nothing is left."

Flora pondered. In a sense, she thought he exaggerated, because much was

left. All the same, she was glad he had been cheated and the reward for

his wrongdoing had gone. He might have wanted to keep it, and her

refusal to share it might have separated them. Still she would not think

about this yet. She must break down his stern calm and much depended on

the line she took.

"You misjudged me and perhaps that accounted for your giving way," she

said. "You thought I hadn't pluck enough to marry you when you were

poor? My dear, I loved you and knew you were not rich!"

"You hadn't known poverty. There was another thing; your father made

stipulations and of course he was justified. I was forced to satisfy him

and your friends. Would you have liked them to pity you for a romantic

fool whom a common adventurer had carried away?"

"Ah," said Flora, "you didn't know my friends much better than you know

me! Mabel's my friend and she let her lover go away. I think it hurt Bob

when he found out what you had done; but has he turned from you?"

Wyndham said nothing and she resumed: "However, all this is not

important now. You can't go on. What are you going to do?"

"It looks as if Bob had made some plans for me. I don't know yet if I'll

consent. My plan is simpler and would save him trouble and risk. It

depends on you if I carry it out."

Flora gave him a quick glance, for his manner was baffling. He looked

stern and his mouth was set.

"How does it depend on me?" she asked.

"I cheated you and your father and you have found me out. You know how

deep in the mud I've gone and it wouldn't be strange if you thought I

might go deeper. I expect you have lost all trust in me. Well, if the

shock's too great, you must give me up. I'll drop out, vanish like my

uncle, and trouble you no more."

Flora laughed, a hoarse, emotional laugh that shook her and brought the

blood to her skin.

"You thought I would give you up? You have been afraid of this since you

saw Peters at the church and you dropped the ring? Oh, but you are very

dull! I love you and it was for my sake you did wrong. Well, I am not

afraid to share the punishment. If I could save you, I'd bear it all.

The thing that hurts is, you doubted if I was brave enough."

"I knew your pluck; you gave me proof when you married me. For all that,

I knew your hatred of shabbiness and wrong. I'm an unsuccessful

criminal."

"All the same you are my husband," said Flora quietly.

Wyndham looked hard at her and hesitated.

"My dear," he said, "I cannot urge this claim. It would hurt less to

leave you than try to keep you if you shrank."

"Then you doubt me yet?"

"No. I'm ashamed and humbled. I don't know what I ought to do, or what I

ought to say."

"There is not much to be said, but it is difficult. Come here, Harry,

and give me your hand. One hates to talk like a moralizing prig and it

does no good; but you have gone down hill for me and I want to help you

back."

Wyndham came to the bench and she took his hand in hers. "I am your wife

and will not let you go," she went on. "Still you must give up the money

you have earned and put straight the harm you have done. It doesn't

matter if this makes us poor. I can go without much you have given me.

I'd be glad to go without!"

"Ah," he said with strong emotion, "I didn't know you, Flora! Although

you hate my offense, you mean to stick to me?"

"My dear! I expect the temptation was very strong and at the beginning

you did not know all you did. It was rather horrible to help a renegade

outcast to plot against civilized rule and try to put in its place

superstitious cruelty. But that's done with. We must think how we can

make good."

"I can't make good at my cost. You and Bob must pay, and I cheated Bob."

"Bob will bear you no grudge and I want to help."

"Very well," said Wyndham, with forced quietness. "You have given me a

chance I don't deserve to get straight again, and I'd be a meaner brute

than I am if I let it go." He got up and his face was very resolute.

"Now I'll look for Bob."

He went off and Flora, although badly shaken, was satisfied. She had

saved her husband from the Bat and from himself. He had not protested

much; on the whole he had been reserved and cold, but she knew he was

moved and one could trust him when he looked like that. She began to

feel comforted and get back her calm. The soft splash of languid waves

on the rocks beyond the terrace was soothing. Except for this, all was

very quiet and the quietness steadied her.

By-and-by she heard a step, and looking up, saw Peters had come back. He

smiled, but his smile was cruel and she shrank from him with a quick

half-conscious movement. Peters took off his hat.

"Mrs. Wyndham, I believe?" he said.

"I am Mrs. Wyndham," Flora replied. "What do you want?"

"A few minutes' talk. I imagine you will be interested."

Flora hated him. He knew Harry's offense and meant to use his power;

perhaps to demand money and perhaps for revenge. He had power, but since

she and Bob knew Harry's guilt, not as much as he thought. She wanted to

make him feel the scorn and loathing he excited. All the same, she might

find out something useful if she led him on. He was an unscrupulous

antagonist and she meant to fight for her husband. She made a vague sign

of agreement and Peters sat down on some steps in the terrace wall.

"Your father holds an important post and your friends are well-known

people," he began. "I expect you value their rather exclusive society."

"What has this to do with you?" Flora asked.

Peters made a deprecating gesture. "Wyndhams' has now some standing on

the exchange; the house's credit is pretty good, and people are

beginning to think your husband a clever business man. Wyndham is

clever, but for a man to build up a business he must be known for

something else. If he wants to command people's trust, he must keep

certain rules."

"I suppose that is so," Flora agreed with forced carelessness.

"Very well," said Peters. "I'm afraid Wyndhams' new prosperity rests on

an unsafe foundation. A statement about their trade on the Caribbean

would shake it badly; in fact, I doubt if the house would stand the

shock. A merchant must enjoy his customers' confidence and confidence is

soon destroyed."

"You imply you could destroy the confidence people have in Wyndhams'?"

"It is possible. For all that, I hesitate-- You see, you, and to some

extent Commodore Chisholm, would be involved in your husband's fall. But

I needn't labor this. You know how prosperous conventional people treat

friends who lose their place."

Flora struggled for calm, but her eyes flashed and the blood came to her

skin.

"Oh," she said, forgetting the part she meant to play, "you want a

bribe? Money to be silent? You could not rob my husband, so you came to

me! You think I am weaker and you can work on my fears?"

"It looks as if he had told you something," Peters remarked coolly. "I

do not think he has told you all."

There was a step on the path behind them and as Flora turned Marston

advanced. His face was red and very grim. Bob was generally calm, but he

was savage now.

"Suppose you leave the thing to me? I saw the fellow coming here," he

said to Flora, and stopped in front of Peters. "You haven't gone yet? I

had some trouble to get rid of you before, and don't mean to be bothered

by you again. This is the last annoyance you will give us."

Moving forward deliberately, he seized the other and swung him off his

feet. Peters was short and light, for fever had worn him thin; Marston

was big and powerful. He got a good hold where the other's clothes were

slack, and lifting him with a strong effort, went up the steps. Peters

kicked and struggled. Marston gasped and when his hat fell off Flora

laughed. She was moved by a reaction after the strain. When Marston

reached the top step he held Peters over the edge of the wall.

"The tide's low," he said hoarsely, with obvious disappointment. "I was

going to throw you into the water."

"If you drop me, somebody would find me on the rocks," Peters replied in

a breathless voice, and Flora tried to stop her wild laughter. Her

control was vanishing and the scene was ludicrous. Peters had looked

grotesque while he wriggled in Bob's grasp and now his coolness supplied

a last touch of grim humor.

"I don't know if it's worth while to go to jail for you and perhaps it's

not," Marston gasped. He put Peters down and shook him savagely. "For a

blackmailer, you're a poor sort of fool. Can't you see yet how you've

muddled things? You can't tell Mrs. Wyndham more than she knows, and I

won't pay you to tell nobody else. You'll get no bribe for letting

Wyndhams' carry on the lagoon trade, because the trade has stopped for

good. It ought to be obvious that your hold on us has gone and now

you're going too."

He paused and seizing Peter's shoulders turned him round and half pushed

and half threw him across the terrace. Peters fell into a clump of

shrubs, and getting up, stole away in silence. Then Marston turned to

Flora.

"Sorry! I expect you don't approve, but I felt I must let myself go.

When people make me think about that confounded lagoon I get savage."

"I do approve," said Flora, trying to be calm. "Perhaps it wasn't really

humorous, but I was forced to laugh. Did you meet Harry? He went to

look for you."

"No," said Marston. "I want to see him, and after this little exploit

expect you'll be glad to get rid of me. However, I think you have got

rid of the other fellow."

He found Wyndham writing a letter in the hotel smoking-room, and sitting

down opposite, waited until he looked up.

"I suppose you told Flora all about it," Marston remarked.

"I did. Your advice was good."

"It was better than I thought. If you had waited, Peters would have

given her his story before she knew yours. I found him trying to begin

it a few minutes since."

"Ah," said Wyndham, "it looks as if I had run some risk! After all, I

don't know." He paused and resumed with emotion: "I admitted everything,

but she trusts me yet; I think she would have trusted me had I put my

confession off. It's strange, but I didn't know how staunch my wife is.

We'll let this go. What did you do with Peters?"

Marston laughed. "I came near to throwing him over the wall. Held him

over the edge and wanted to let him drop; but the brute suggested that

somebody would find him on the rocks. I saw the force of this, because

the consequences would have been awkward now we have a big job on hand.

It's plain that you will need me."

"I do need you. It's lucky I have such a partner. I've got to make

restitution and can't do so at my proper cost. Yet I've no claim; I

cheated you, as I cheated my wife. I'm an unsuccessful rogue and didn't

let my scruples bother me until I was found out."

"That's sentimental extravagance," Marston said with some embarrassment.

"Anyhow, I am your partner and your responsibilities are mine. I don't

disown my debts."

"The debts are heavy. I ran them up, without your knowing."

"We can pay," said Marston, smiling. "It won't break us; I'm pretty rich

and mean to see you out. You can count on my help and my money; in fact,

on all I can give. Now that's done with. There's no more to be said."

Wyndham gave him a quick, grateful glance. "Thanks! You're rash, but I

must try not to disappoint you. Friendship like yours is rare."

When Marston went off, he sat for a time, looking straight in front. He

felt slack and strangely humbled, but was conscious of a new resolve.

Although he had gone far down hill, it was, perhaps, not too late to

stop. The climb back would be long and hard; he could never reach his

wife's and his friend's level. All the same, he meant to front the

ascent. They had borne much for him, he must, so far as he was able, try

to repay them.

CHAPTER VIII

UP HILL

The smoking-room of the Marine Hotel at Carmeltown was crowded with

yachtsmen on the evening after the channel regatta. Marston and Wyndham

occupied a small table, the former trying to read a newspaper while the

latter looked about. The big room echoed with voices, a haze of tobacco

smoke drifted round the pillars, and now and then a peal of laughter

marked the end of an Irish yachtsman's tale. For all that, Wyndham's

face was rather grim, and Marston, looking up by-and-by, thought he was

brooding.

"Hallo! Here's Elliot," he exclaimed. "S'pose he came across on the

mailboat. I heard her whistle not long since. Thought he was going to

stop and see if they could salve _Deva_. Anyhow, I'd like to hear about

the collision and it looks as if he was making for us."

"Yes," said Wyndham. "I imagine he wants to see me."

Elliot crossed the floor, stopping now and then when somebody spoke to

him, and after a time reached Marston's table, where he sat down.

"I've been trying to get to you for some minutes, but the Irishmen

wouldn't let me pass. The news of my bad luck soon got across," he

remarked.

"We didn't get much news," said Marston. "What about the boat?"

"She's gone; cut down to the bilge and sunk in six fathoms. No chance of

salvage and the navigation board is going to blow her up."

Marston said he was sorry and asked about the collision.

"To begin with, I want a drink," said Elliot, who called a waiter and

then resumed: "It was dark and hazy, and we were creeping up to the

anchorage at Kingstown with all sail set. I was at the tiller, but the

wind was very light and she would hardly steer; the tide was carrying

her along. Jevons, looking out under the boom, said he saw a steamer's

lights, but just then I heard a North-Wall boat in the fog. You know the

noise they make when they're steaming fast, and the fog's pretty bad

when those boats slow up. I knew she wasn't far off when I saw her

lights; red, white, and green all together. That meant we had to do

something quick."

Marston nodded. When a steamer's three lights are seen she is heading

direct for the observer.

"Our flare wasn't handy, and the first match broke," Elliot resumed.

"Reckon I was awkward and not very cool. However, I got a light and it

was a relief when her whistle indicated that she was changing her

course; but while I was fumbling with the matches I forgot the other

boat. So did Jevons; he owned it afterwards. The North-Wall man went

past us, like a train, lights all over the passenger decks and a

four-foot wave rolling off the bows. She left us dazzled and rather

shaken, and then Jevons shouted that the other fellow was close ahead."

Elliot stopped and drained his glass, and when he went on his voice was

hoarse. "We were crossing her bows, close-hauled on the starboard tack.

Our business, of course, was to carry on, but our lights were low and

not very bright, and as a rule, it's prudent to give a steamer room.

Anyhow, I shoved down the helm to bring her round, and told Jevons to

get out the big oar when I found her slow. The wind was light and she

was plunging on the North-Wall boat's wake. She came headto, and then a

roller hit her bows and she fell off. Jevons was trying to pull her

round, and for two or three moments I saw the steamer's forecastle. She

was a big, clumsy craft, going light, and looked as high as a house.

"Then there was a crash and the mast went. I saw our side deck crumble

and the other's stem cut through to the cabin top. Mast and boom were

over the side, and when the round of her bow filled our cockpit I knew

it was time to go. By good luck, we had towed the dinghy and the steamer

held up _Deva_ until we got on board. Then as we cut the painter the old

boat broke away, and the steamer went on, over the top of her. I imagine

she stopped, because we heard her whistle in the fog, but we'd had

enough of her and pulled for the beach. We landed at Kingstown, and I

think that's all."

Marston sympathized and ordered drinks. Elliot drained his glass and

turned to Wyndham.

"Well," he said, "she was insured and I want another boat. What's your

price for _Red Rose_?"

"_Red Rose_ is not for sale," Marston interposed.

"Then why did Forwood tell me you wanted an offer?"

Marston looked at Wyndham, who nodded. "It's all right, Bob; I'm going

to sell." Then he turned to Elliot and stated a sum.

"A moderate price!" the other remarked. "I'll admit it's less than I

thought. Is she sound?"

"She is not," Wyndham replied. "Port side's weak where the strain of the

rigging comes; she needs some new timbers. The covering board ought to

be relaid all round. Keel's shaky aft; the deadwood ought to be

lifted----"

He indicated the repairs he thought necessary and Elliot looked at him

with surprise.

"Since you want to sell, aren't you taking a rather unusual line?"

Wyndham smiled. "I allowed for defects when I fixed the price. The

carpenter's job will be expensive, but if it's properly done, the boat

will afterwards be nearly as good as new. I think you can rely on this."

Marston gave his partner a puzzled glance and Elliot said, "After your

frankness, I'll buy her and take my chance."

"I imagine it's a safe investment," Wyndham rejoined.

For a few moments Elliot was quiet and then he fixed his eyes on Wyndham

and said in a thoughtful voice, "_Red Rose_ is fast and you sailed her

cleverly. All the same, I never understood how you beat us when you won

the Commodore's cup."

"I imagine I went the wrong side of the Knoll buoy," Wyndham answered

coolly. "Perhaps this gave us some advantage, because the tide runs

longer near the coast."

Marston moved abruptly, but Wyndham went on: "I'm not certain; but if

you had filed a protest, I wouldn't have claimed the prize. Bob thought

he saw something in the haze. It might have been a gull, but it might

have been the buoy. Anyhow, we went on and the tide carried us along the

shore."

The short silence that followed had a hint of strain. Wyndham knew

Elliot knew his winning the race had appealed to Flora's imagination.

Moreover, he thought Elliot had wanted to marry Flora and would have had

Chisholm's support. Marston saw they had got on awkward ground, and felt

embarrassed.

"After all you did beat us and you were not sure it was the buoy,"

Elliot said, in a quiet, meaning voice. "It's too late to file a protest

now. Besides, we were talking about the boat----"

"I'll put her on the hard, if you'd like a proper survey before you

decide."

"No," said Elliot. "I don't think it's needful. Your statement satisfied

me. I'll buy her."

He went off and Wyndham gave Marston a smile. "You look surprised, Bob."

"Let's have another drink," said Marston, who called a waiter and then

resumed awkwardly: "Elliot played up pretty well. I like the fellow;

he's a sportsman, but after all I think it was a gull we saw. Anyhow, we

won't bother about it again. Why have you sold _Red Rose_?"

"It ought to be obvious. A yacht costs something and my keeping an

expensive toy wouldn't be justified just now."

"Romantic exaggeration! You're frankly ridiculous," said Marston with

some warmth. "Wyndhams' isn't going broke."

Wyndham picked up the newspaper and indicated an advertisement. "I

really think I'm logical. Perhaps, this ought to persuade you I've made

up my mind."

"Preposterous!" Marston exclaimed, throwing down the paper. "Your pretty

new house? Besides, it's Flora's house as well as yours!"

"Flora agrees," said Wyndham quietly.

Marston got up and his face was red. "Looks as if you don't mean to let

me help much. It's senseless exaggeration; things aren't as bad as you

make out. However, I've had enough. I'll get angry if I stay."

"You ought to approve; I imagined you liked a thorough job," Wyndham

rejoined, and Marston frowned as he crossed the floor.

Men spoke to him as he passed their tables, but he did not stop and

going to the drawing-room found Flora alone. When he came in she put

down her book and indicated an easy chair.

"Stop and talk to me, Bob. I was beginning to feel neglected," she said.

"But what has happened? You look annoyed."

"I am rather savage," Marston admitted. "Think I'll stand until I get

cool. Do you know Harry has sold _Red Rose_?"

"I knew he wanted to sell her," Flora said quietly.

"This is not all. D'you know about the ridiculous advertisement he's put

in the newspaper?"

"Of course! I don't altogether see why you are surprised."

Marston hesitated. He did not want to admit he had been surprised, and,

after studying Flora thought he could not urge that Wyndham's

reformation might be overdone.

"Anyhow, you can see why I'm annoyed," he said. "I'm Harry's partner and

am going to marry your oldest friend."

"I have not forgotten this and it helps me to be frank. You're generous,

Bob, but Harry has done wrong and must pay. He cannot make good at

another's cost."

"The trouble is, _you_ must pay. Your house, for example! You planned

it, you worked out all the colors, and thought where everything ought to

go. The house is beautiful, you're proud of it, and a woman's home means

much to her."

Flora turned her head for a moment, but when she looked up again her

eyes shone.

"I would sooner be proud of my husband. I am proud now and am going to

be prouder. Harry has pluck and meeting obstacles spurs him on. Our part

is to encourage him, while he struggles up hill. I know he'll reach the

top."

"With a wife like you, he ought to go far," said Marston quietly. "I'm

sorry you won't let me help in the way I want, but s'pose I must agree.

Don't know if I'm romantic, but I've felt the world's a better place

since I knew you and Mabel."

He went off and soon afterwards Chisholm came in, carrying a newspaper.

"What does this mean?" he asked, indicating an advertisement. "Telford

showed me the paper. Wanted to know why you were selling the house. I

couldn't tell him. Is Harry getting rich so fast that it isn't big

enough?"

Flora smiled. "The story's rather long, but I think you must be told. If

we stay here, somebody may come in. Let's go to the breakwater."

She got her hat and crossing a street they reached a long granite wall

that ran out to sea. The languid swell beat against the massive,

dovetailed blocks, the moon was rising above the gray hills, and when

they had passed the landing place there was nobody about. By-and-by

Chisholm indicated a mooring post and, when Flora sat down, leaned

against the granite parapet.

"My dear," he said, "I've been puzzled recently; had a notion something

was wrong. For all that, Wyndhams' was obviously prosperous, Harry's an

indulgent husband, and I wouldn't own I'd grounds for bothering, until I

saw this advertisement. Well, sometimes it's rash to meddle, but I'm

anxious. Tell me all you can."

Flora told him and after she stopped he was quiet for a time. The

moonlight touched his face and she saw the lines get deeper. The old

Commodore was deeply moved, but she was glad he did not look stern.

"I've got a knock and know how you were hurt. You bear it well," he

said. "To some extent, the fault is mine. When Harry wanted to marry you

I doubted but gave way. I ought to have been firm."

"You are not accountable," Flora replied. "I wanted you to approve, but

I meant to marry Harry. I loved him, though I knew his drawbacks. But

this doesn't matter; I love him now."

Chisholm looked at her with knitted brows and she saw he was suffering

for her sake.

"You are very staunch, but I knew this. You say Harry means to make

reparation. Now he's found out, his repentance is strangely thorough."

"You must not be bitter," said Flora quietly.

"Very well. Let's be practical. Your husband's job will be hard and

long. He must carry his load, but part will fall on you. It's already

doing so."

"That is just. Much of the fault was mine. I trusted Harry, and after

all I trust him better; but at the beginning this was not enough. I

wanted you and our friends to know him; to own he had talent and see my

pride in him was founded well. In a way, it was a mean ambition. I

wanted him to get rich. Not because I'm greedy----"

"I think I understand," Chisholm remarked. "Perhaps we use the money

standard oftener than we ought. It's not high, but all the same, to earn

money demands some useful qualities." He paused and added with a sigh:

"I am poor and know."

"You are a dear! Your honesty is worth much more money than you could

have earned. Then you're not hard, as some honest people are. You will

not be hard to Harry now he is trying to make amends?"

"Far from it! What right have I to hurt a broken man?"

Flora smiled. "Harry is bruised, but not broken. Then, you see, I made

his temptation stronger. When I ought to have held him back I

half-consciously urged him on. It was for my sake he broke rules we try

to keep, and I mustn't grumble if some of his punishment falls on me."

"After all, you did not know what you did."

"I ought to have known; I am his wife. But I think you understand, and

there's no more to be said."

Chisholm got up. "A nasty knock, but we can bear it. You have pluck and

one can't be beaten when one is not afraid."

They went back silently and near the end of the wall met Wyndham going

to the landing steps. Chisholm stopped and gave him his hand.

"Flora has told me all," he said. "Your friends will stand by you."

PART III

REPARATION

CHAPTER I

WYNDHAM PAYS DUTY

Red reflections trembled on the sea, a fringe of languid surf broke

along the beach, and as the liner turned a point, a white town that rose

in terraces, glimmered like a pearl. A yellow flag ran up to the

masthead, the throb of engines slowed, and a noisy launch steamed out

from behind the mole. Marston, leaning on the rail, watched her

approach, and his look was thoughtful when he turned to Wyndham.

"If Don Ramon got our telegram, he's probably on board," he said. "I

hope he is, because if he doesn't come it might imply he means to make

things difficult for us. He could if he liked."

"Larrinaga will come," Wyndham replied. "From all accounts, he's a

pretty good officer, but I don't expect he neglects his interests while

he looks after the State's. I'm counting on this."

"I s'pose one mustn't be fastidious, but I don't want to get involved in

fresh intrigue. The job we've undertaken is awkward enough."

"Very awkward," Wyndham agreed, with some dryness. "In a way, it looks

too big for us. To begin with, we have got to pay duties we dodged, and

satisfy the Government we cheated. Then, without exciting the latter's

curiosity, we're going to stop a rebellion and carry off its leader.

There's the worst puzzle. The fellow's cunning and powerful. Moreover,

he's my uncle."

He stopped, for the engines clanked noisily as the screw turned astern;

then the anchor splashed and the launch swung in to the gangway. The

port doctor came on board and after him a man in tight-fitting American

clothes. His wide black belt was spun from the finest silk and Marston

noted his hat. Indians had woven the delicate material under running

water; presidents and dictators wore hats like that, and none of the few

produced were sent to Europe. It was obvious that Senor Larrinaga was

now a man of importance.

"You sent for me," he said, with a bow.

"The steamer goes on in the morning," Wyndham replied. "We hesitated

about landing and calling, for fear we might trespass on your time. By

sending a telegram we left you free to refuse. If you are not much

occupied, I hope you'll dine on board."

Larrinaga said he was willing and after a time they went to the saloon.

For the most part, the passengers had landed and only three or four

occupied the tables. By-and-by the others went out and Wyndham opened a

fresh bottle of Italian wine. A steward turned on the electric light and

soft reflections fell on colored glass and polished wood. Beads of damp

sparkled on the white-and-gold ceiling, although the skylights were open

and a throbbing fan made a cool draught about the table. Footsteps

echoed along the deck and when the steamer rolled the water gurgled

about her side, but it was quiet in the saloon. By-and-by Larrinaga put

down his glass.

"One likes to meet one's friends, but I do not know if this alone is why

you sent for me," he said. "If it is not, you see your servant!"

Wyndham bowed. "We value your friendship and particularly your honesty

and tact. There is a matter we thought you might arrange for us."

"If it is possible; but you must be moderate. One is watched and

criticized as one rises in rank, and it is difficult to allow one's

friends exclusive privileges. To grant too many robs the Government."

"We want to make the Government richer," Wyndham replied. "In fact, we

propose to give you a sum that ought to have been paid, in smaller

amounts, before. You will, no doubt, be able to hand it to the proper

officer, without our being bothered by awkward formalities."

Larrinaga looked at him with puzzled surprise. "In this country one pays

when one is forced, and the Government is generally paid last of all.

One seldom gives money for which one is not asked."

"We do not mean to rob your Government and my partner is rich enough to

be honest," said Wyndham, smiling. "You have no customs officer at the

lagoon, and we found on studying our accounts that some duties had not

been paid."

"Proper copies of your cargo manifests ought to have been sent the

officer at the port where your vessel's clearance papers were stamped."

"I think the manifests were sent, but now and then we got cargo at the

last moment as we were going to sea. Besides, the officer was a friend

of ours----"

Larrinaga filled his glass, and while he pondered Wyndham lighted a

cigarette. The matter needed careful handling. It was plain that

Larrinaga's surprise had gone and he was cautious.

"Then you propose to give me the money you ought to have paid?" the

latter presently remarked.

"Yes," said Wyndham. "We are traders and must get on with our business,

while the officer we knew has given up his post. If we write to his

successor, we must comply with numerous formalities, and a stranger

would insist on knowing why we did not pay at the proper time. Well, if

you take the money, I expect you can straighten things out."

Larrinaga looked hard at him, and Wyndham smiled. He imagined the fellow

was not honester than other government officials he had met on the

Caribbean. Larrinaga knew it was in his power to keep back as much of

the sum as he liked for his private use and would, no doubt, do so. In

fact, the fellow would imagine he was offered a bribe. Since one does

not give bribes for nothing, Wyndham must hint that he had an object,

and the hint must be plausible.

"Then you expect no particular privileges?" Larrinaga remarked.

"Oh, no," said Wyndham. "All we want is to carry on our business without

the small officials bothering us. We are not smugglers, but we would not

like the vessel stopped if a manifest now and then is not properly made

up. One must go in and out when the tide serves, and sometimes we do not

know what goods we have on board until we check the tallies when we get

to sea. If we find we have cheated the customs, you can trust us to put

things straight. Only, we would sooner deal with somebody important;

yourself, for example."

Larrinaga's eyes twinkled. "Very well. I think I can promise you will

not be bothered much." He paused, and resumed in a thoughtful voice: "I

expect you know your trading at the lagoon just now may lead to

trouble?"

"All trade is troublesome, particularly when it is carried on in the

mangrove swamps," Marston interposed. "The lagoon is not much worse than

other spots. Anyhow, the profits are large and we must earn some money."

"But Senor Wyndham stated that you are rich."

"Rich people are sometimes greedy," Marston rejoined with a touch of

awkwardness. "I did not begin business with the object of losing my

capital."

Wyndham thought he would leave Bob alone. Larrinaga would not suspect

him of plotting and his rather obvious embarrassment was an advantage.

Bob was the man one would expect to be embarrassed when engaged in

trying to bribe a government officer to sanction his smuggling. For all

that, Wyndham gave Larrinaga a keen glance. The latter leaned back

carelessly and rolled a cigarette. His movements were firm and quick.

Don Ramon was clever and knew much about the bush. It was possible he

knew Wyndham had supplied the Bat with goods and he might mean to let

him do so for a time while he took his bribes, hoping to cheat both by

giving them a feeling of false security. Wyndham, however, did not think

Don Ramon knew the Bat was his relation; Peters knew, but he was not

the man to share a secret he had thought worth much. Although one must

not altogether take this for granted, Wyndham could not see another

plan.

"Very well," said Larrinaga when he had made his cigarette. "I will take

your money and see you are not bothered." Then he looked hard at

Wyndham. "I will give you a hint: wait until your cargo comes down and

do not go far from the beach. The bush is dangerous for strangers just

now."

"We heard something about this," Marston replied. "I don't like the

_Mestizos_, and if they're plotting trouble, hope you'll put them down."

"My partner has a horror of the swamps," Marston remarked with a smile.

"If he was not keen to earn some money, he would not enter the lagoon.

He has not joined me long and wants his friends to think he has a talent

for business."

Larrinaga shrugged and got up. "The English and Americans are hard to

understand. If I were rich, I would be satisfied to lounge about the

plaza and now and then gamble at the casino with my friends. I would not

gamble with the _Mestizos_ in the swamps. The chances are too much on

the side of the banker there. Well, I wish you good luck until we meet

again."

The others went with him to the gangway and when the launch steamed off

Marston sat down and looked about. It had got dark but a half moon drew

a sparkling track across the calm sea. Anchor lights swung languidly by

the shore, and in the background the white town shone with a pale

reflection against the dusky hills. Music came off across the water with

the rumble of the surf, and the smooth swell splashed softly against

the vessel's side. Presently Marston turned and looked to the east.

"One feels an English steamer's a bit of England. She takes civilization

and decency where she goes; but it will be different to-morrow when we

board _Columbine_. I wish our job was finished and we were going the

other way. Anyhow, it must be finished, and I don't know if I liked the

line you took. Don Ramon won't hand over all the money."

"It's possible," Wyndham agreed. "Still I think you urged that we must

begin by paying the duties we had dodged."

"I wanted them paid to the Government, not to a corrupt official who

thinks he's got another bribe. The duties belong to the country."

"Oh, well. I don't know a channel by which the country would get its

dues. All are leaky; in fact, they are meant to leak. It's significant

that official salaries are small. However, I don't expect Don Ramon is

dishonester than the rest. Some of the money will go where it ought."

"Perhaps it's not important," Marston said thoughtfully. "All the same,

you rather let the fellow think we wanted to smuggle."

"Smuggling's profitable. It was prudent to hint we had an object for

haunting the lagoon. On the whole, I imagine a frank statement that we

were trying to be honest would not have satisfied Don Ramon; one must

make allowances for the other fellow's point of view. I hope he is

satisfied, but I doubt."

"He is not a fool," Marston remarked. "I expect he reckons we mean to

supply the Bat with things he needs to fight the Government. If he's

not altogether corrupt, why does he let us go on?"

"It's not very plain. Anyhow, I imagine he won't let us go on very long.

In fact, speed's important. We must finish the job before we are

stopped."

"The rebellion must be stopped," Marston agreed. "In a way, I don't care

who rules the country; I expect nobody would rule it well. All the same,

I'm not going to see white traders murdered and the swamp-belt given up

to a cruel brute who would rule it on the African plan."

"The Bat can't start his rebellion without supplies, which we don't mean

to give him," Wyndham said dryly. "Things would be easier if he were not

my uncle."

Marston hesitated. "This bothers me most. D'you think Larrinaga knows?"

"I think not. Peters knows, however, and when he finds out where we've

gone I expect we'll soon have him on our track. This means we must

reckon on three antagonists."

"Three?" said Marston with a puzzled look.

Wyndham nodded. "I expect we'll find Rupert Wyndham the worst. However,

I see one advantage; none of the three knows our plans and all theirs

clash. We are not up against a combine."

"We haven't a plan," Marston objected.

"Oh, well," said Wyndham. "Since that is so we must trust our luck."

He went off and Marston smoked a cigarette and mused. He had wanted to

be open and honest, but since they could not use force, he admitted

reluctantly that they must intrigue. The job did not look as simple as

he had thought in England; it was getting obvious that Rupert Wyndham

would be their worst antagonist. The fellow was, so to speak, no longer

a white man; he was a savage with a lust for cruelty and power, but he

had a white man's intelligence. To imagine he could be persuaded to give

up his ambitious plans was ridiculous; he had no moral sense to which

one could appeal. All the same, it was unthinkable that they should let

him be captured by Larrinaga and shot.

Marston could see no light and presently threw away his cigarette and

got up. The job was awkward, but he must not own he was beaten before he

had begun. He would go on and trust his luck. In the meantime, he had

promised to play cards with some passengers and he went to the

smoking-room. They played until the electric light went out, when

Marston found he had lost five pounds. It did not look as if his luck

was very good.

In the morning, the steamer sailed and when she stopped again as dark

fell a boat was hoisted out. High land loomed, vague and blue, against

the sunset, drifting mist hid the beach, and not far off two masts and a

dark hull cut against the hazy background. As he went to the gangway

Marston looked back with a curious feeling of regret. The steamer stood

for much that he liked and knew, and he had enjoyed the society of her

officers. Their temperament was sane and practical. They did not seek

strange adventures; theirs was a healthful struggle against the obvious

dangers of the sea.

In front, all was different, and Marston could not see where his path

led. Mystery, and perhaps horror, deepened the gloom through which he

must grope his way, and his face was grim as he went down the ladder.

He did not talk while the sailors rowed him to _Columbine_, and leaving

Wyndham to give the crew some orders he sat down on the gratings by the

wheel.

The dew was falling and the deck was damp. Moisture dripped from the

masts and ropes, and it was very hot. The anchor light tossed against

the portentous gloom of the land. The yacht looked old and dirty, though

Marston knew her strength and speed; the half-naked crew made no noise

as they stole about. Their dark skin was scarcely distinguishable and

Marston thought they rather looked like ghosts than men.

In the meantime, the steamer's boat was pulling back. Marston saw her

move across the dim reflections on the water, but the splash of oars got

faint and by and by she vanished in the dark. Then a whistle shrieked

and lights that twinkled in the distance began to move. The throb of

engines traveled far, but it presently died away and all was quiet.

Marston was launched on his adventure, and since he was practical, he

went below and studied the chart.