WATERMARKS
As they began to retrace their steps through the tunnel, Armstrong
said--
"If we count our paces we shall have some sort of an idea where we've
been to. We know the tunnel runs pretty nearly due east from the ruins,
and there must be a building at the end. It seems to me it's a choice
between the Red House and that old tower. There's no other."
"True. Well, we'll both count. Bet you we don't agree."
"People never do agree when the count is a long one. Besides, we can't
keep step in the dark, unless we left-right all the way, and I'm hanged
if I do that!"
They started. Suddenly Warrender stopped.
"I say, we shall look pretty green if some one has discovered that open
trap in our absence--Rush, for example."
"Frightful mugs, the two of us. We ought to have closed it. But it's
still very early in the morning. Let's hope Rush isn't up with the
lark. Hang it. I've forgotten how many steps I'd counted. What do you
make it?"
"Fifty-eight. Concentrate your mind, my son."
"I'll start at fifty-nine, then. Don't you think we might venture on a
light now?"
"Not for anything. The tunnel's straight, and if you've ever been in a
straight railway tunnel you'll know a light can be seen for miles.
Better be on the safe side."
They completed the course in darkness.
"Well, what's your total?" asked Warrender.
"Two hundred and eighty-three."
"Mine's two hundred and ninety-one. Not so bad."
On emerging into the cellar, they replaced the flagstone and made sure
that the hand-grips were turned as they had found them. Then they
mounted to the upper floor of the cottage.
"I want to discover how that moaning is caused," said Armstrong.
"But it means shinning up to the roof," said Warrender. "It's broad
daylight now. You might be seen."
"So I might. Well, let's take a look over Ambrose Pratt's grounds."
They went into the eastern room. The tower, a little south of the
house, appeared to be slightly the nearer to them, but, ignorant as they
were of the exact length of their paces, they agreed that the end of the
tunnel might lie beneath either of the buildings.
Going then into the room facing south, they started back from the
window. Rush was tramping along the weedy path leading to the southern
end of the island.
"Lucky I didn't climb!" murmured Armstrong.
They watched the man. He seemed to be a little suspicious, stopping
every now and again to listen and look round. Presently he disappeared
into the thicket.
"Safe to go now?" asked Armstrong.
"Let's wait a bit."
Warrender kept his eyes fixed on the stretch of river which was visible
over the low trees southward. After a while he saw a small boat moving
slowly down stream.
"All right now," he remarked. "I dare say he's been spying out on our
camp from the north end. Hope he hasn't missed us."
"Or found our pram! Come on, I want my breakfast."
They stepped out of the cottage, regained the western shore, discovered
the pram where they had concealed it, and, having crossed the river
unobserved, so far as they knew, laid the craft in its former
hiding-place, and returned to camp. Pratt was busy at the paraffin
stove.
"What ho!" he exclaimed. "One must feed, even when pain and anguish
wring the brow. I made sure the spooks or some one had got you, and
after fortifying myself with bacon and eggs I was going up to ask old
Crawshay whether an inquest would be necessary. You look very much
washed out. Been on the tiles?"
"I'll wring your neck if you don't hand over that frying-pan," said
Armstrong.
"Thy necessity is greater than mine. As you know, I'd lick Philip
Sidney or any other old paladin in chivalry. Eat, drink, and be merry.
There's enough coffee brewed for us all. Make a fair division of the
bacon and eggs between you, and I'll fry some more in a brace of shakes.
I say, I am jolly glad to see you! I've had the deuce of a time!"
"More pin-pricks?" asked Warrender.
"No. But I'm blessed--or cursed--with a very vivid imagination, as you
are aware. I stayed up till daybreak, expecting you back every minute,
and when you didn't come I got in a regular stew, saw you tumble from
the roof, and your members all disjected over the garden--horrid sight!
Saw you knocked on the head, trussed and gagged in the cellar; boated
off to France; growing white-haired in a dungeon like that fellow in the
Bastille--you know, finger nails a yard long--mice and rats and toads.
Toads were the last straw, I saw 'em hopping about, and----"
"That bacon done?" said Armstrong. "How many bottles of ginger-beer did
you drink?"
"I am not drunk, most noble Festus. But I say, what _did_ happen?"
"I'd have told you already," said Warrender, "only I couldn't get a word
in."
"That's the reward of patience! I only twaddled, you juggins, to give
you a chance to feed. You did both look awfully done up. The hue of
health is returning now. Fire away, then!"
Warrender, between the mouthfuls, related the experiences of the night,
Pratt showing unusual self-restraint as a listener.
"My poor old uncle!" he exclaimed at the conclusion of the story. "He
can't be convicted as an accessory, can he?"
"Of course not," replied Warrender. "No one could hold him responsible
for what his foreign crew are doing in his absence. It's a pity you
don't know where he's gone. A cable or a Marconigram would bring him
home post-haste."
"I might, perhaps, ask Gradoff for his last address."
"The less we have to do with Gradoff the better, until we have got to
the bottom of the business. Just run down to the boat, will you, and
bring up our map."
The scale of the map was two inches to the mile. A moment's examination
proved that the tower, marked on the map, lay within a radius of
one-eighth of a mile from the island.
"There isn't much doubt that the far end of the tunnel is under the
tower," said Warrender. "The house is a trifle beyond. Didn't you ever
hear of the smugglers' passage, Percy?"
"Never. All I know about it is the tradition that some one was starved
in the tower centuries ago. My sister and I used to play in it as kids;
it was a mere ruin then; no roof, no boarding on the windows."
"I wonder if a local guide-book would give any information?" said
Armstrong.
"Good idea! We'll see presently," said Pratt.
"But we're not studying antiquities," Warrender remarked. "The
essential point is, what are those beggars using the place for now?
What are they doing with those bales of paper? Come into the tent, and
I'll show you the specimen I bagged."
Within the shelter of the tent he unfolded the sheet, and the others
bent over it curiously, fingering it.
"It has a sort of parchmenty feel, and it's much too thick for cigarette
paper," said Pratt. "Is there a watermark?" He held it up to the
sunlight.
"Jiminy!" he exclaimed. Whipping out his pocket-book he took a pound
note, and held it beside the larger sheet. "Look here! The watermark's
almost, but not quite, the same. A dashed clever imitation. Here are
the words, 'One pound,' crowns, diagonal hatchings--everything. The
beggars are forging Bradburys."
The sinister discovery almost robbed the others of breath. There could
be little room for doubt. Such paper, so marked, could be used for only
one purpose. A flood of light was poured on all the mysterious events
of the past week. The paper was brought from abroad, and landed as a
rule on the island in preference to the coast, to avoid the risk of
interference by coastguards; also, no doubt, for greater ease of
transport. Rush was employed because he was a well-known figure in the
neighbourhood, and could go up and down the river in his boat without
awakening suspicion. He might or might not know the contents of the
bales; what was clear was that the printing of the notes must be done
either in the tower or in Mr. Pratt's house. The foreigners had entered
his service with no other end in view than their criminal work.
Gradoff, the head of the gang, had probably known in advance of Mr.
Pratt's intention to travel, and had astutely seized the opportunity of
carrying on his operations in this remote spot, on the premises of an
eccentric gentleman who was something of a recluse, and prone to quarrel
with his neighbours.
"They're clever blackguards," said Pratt. "No wonder the island is
haunted! And I say, Molly Rod's peculiar actions the other day are
explained. She has found out what's going on, and being a decent
Englishwoman, wants to stop it, husband or no husband. You may say what
you like, Jack; I'm certain it is she who makes those signals, and, of
course, my poor old uncle is absolutely ignorant of everything. He'll
be in a terrific bait when he knows."
"What's our next move to be?" asked Warrender. "Inform the police?"
"Certainly not that fellow who yarned about arson the other night," said
Armstrong. "It's a matter for the Chief Constable."
"Or Mr. Crawshay? He's a magistrate," suggested Pratt.
"And an impetuous old hothead," rejoined Armstrong.
"Plenty of common sense, though," said Warrender. "You remember, he
said a good case is often lost through being ill prepared? Well, we've
still only suspicion to go on. There's no earthly doubt about it, of
course; but wouldn't it be best to catch the forgers in the act before
we call in the law?"
"It means loss of time," said Armstrong.
"That doesn't matter to us. You see, if we set the authorities at work
now, they might send a bobby to the house to make inquiries, and give
clever scoundrels like those a chance to get away. But if we can go to
them and say definitely, 'An international gang of forgers is printing
notes in the Red House, and here's one of the forgeries,' the matter
becomes much more important, and they'd take steps to secure the whole
crowd without the possibility of failure. To my mind we'd better keep
everything a dead secret until we've got positive proof."
"I concur with my learned brother," said Pratt. "Besides, we've got so
far with it that I own I should hate to see it taken out of our hands.
Furthermore and finally, it's good sport, and a ripping holiday
adventure."
"That's the best argument of the lot," said Armstrong. "The only sound
one. I confess I'd like to get into the tower, and see them at it."
"We'll go through the tunnel again to-night," said Warrender. "If we
can't find an entry that way, we'll try the outside."
"I make a third to-night," said Pratt.
"We must leave some one in camp, if only for appearance's sake," said
Warrender. "I think Armstrong and I had better go again, as we know the
course. Hope you don't mind. Your turn will come, Percy."
"Well, I'd like to feel myself a martyr, but unluckily I've got a
certain amount of common sense, and I can't help admitting you're right.
Hadn't you better take a snooze, then?"
"I intend to," said Armstrong. "We'll sleep till lunch; this afternoon
we'll go to the village and get a guide-book. We want some more bacon,
too."
"And I'll start preparing our case," said Pratt. "We'd better have it in
writing, so I'll draw up an account of our discoveries so far.
Shouldn't wonder if it becomes a classic document in the archives of
Scotland Yard."
After lunch Armstrong and Warrender set off up the river in the dinghy
for the sake of exercise. They made various purchases in the village,
and obtained a small guide-book at the post office. It contained a few
lines about the tower, which Warrender read aloud as they returned to
the ferry: "In the grounds of the Red House are the remains of a square
tower, believed to date from the troublous times of King Stephen. There
is a tradition that in the thirteenth century a certain baron was
incarcerated there by an ancestor of the present owner, and starved to
death. At one time open to the public, since tourists cut their
initials in the oaken beams it has been closed to sightseers."
"Not a word about smugglers, you see," remarked Warrender. "The secret
was evidently very well kept."
Rogers happened to be cleaning his windows as they passed, and they
turned to have a chat with him. Warrender discreetly led the
conversation to the subject of the tower.
"Ay, 'tis the only old ancient curiosity we've got in these parts," said
the innkeeper. "I know the place, though I haven't been there since I
was a nipper, thirty odd years ago. Us youngsters used to like to climb
the winding stairs; 'twas open in those days. Had no roof then. Mr.
Pratt a few years back did some restoring, as they call it; put on a
flat roof. My friend Saunders, his old butler, told me the top room was
used as a sort of museum; Mr. Pratt kept there a whole lot of
curiosities he'd collected in his travels. I mind as how my neighbour
Parsons, the builder, was affronted because the building job was done by
a firm from Dartmouth, and so far as I know none of the village folk
have been inside the place since. Mr. Pratt was very particular after
he'd rigged up his museum; wouldn't let anybody in except his special
cronies; and 'tis always locked up when he's away, so if you young gents
had an idea of visiting it, I'm afeard you'll be disappointed."
"We should certainly have liked to see the museum," said Warrender.
"There's nothing else very interesting, apparently. But no doubt the
curiosities are valuable, and Mr. Pratt is quite right to lock up the
place. Have you seen your sister, by the way?"
"Not a sign of her. She've deserted us quite. She won't even see Henery
Drew's milkman, I suppose becos Henery fought her husband's friend,
Jensen. I call it downright silly, but there, who'd be so bold as to
say what a woman'll do next? There's my missus----"
"Now, Joe," called Mrs. Rogers from within, "get on with they winders,
my man. There's all the pewters to shine afore opening time."
Rogers gave the boys his usual rueful smile, and they went on their way.
Rowing with their faces up stream, they did not notice until they pulled
in to the landing-place above the camp that the motor-boat no longer lay
at her moorings.
"Have those beggars let her drift again?" said Warrender, angrily.
"Pratt!" he called.
There was no answer. They looked down the river. The boat was not in
sight. Hurrying to the tent, with the expectation of finding Pratt
asleep there, they discovered that it was untenanted.
"What the dickens!" exclaimed Warrender. "Surely he hasn't gone larking
with the boat? He always prided himself on knowing nothing about her
working!"
"Seems to me they've run off with him and the boat too," said Armstrong.
"Where's his banjo, by the way?"
It was neither in the tent nor on the chair outside, where Pratt
sometimes left it.
They looked blankly at each other for a moment, then Warrender
exclaimed--
"Come on! This is serious! I can't believe he's kidnapped. What's the
use of that? Let us row down--perhaps he hasn't gone far."
They ran to the bank, sprang into the dinghy, and sculled rapidly down
stream, every now and then turning their heads to scan the river, the
banks, the island, for a sign of the motor-boat. They had almost reached
the mouth when Armstrong suddenly cried--
"Listen! Isn't that a banjo?"
They shipped oars. Faintly on the breeze from seaward came the strains
of "Three Blind Mice." A few strokes brought the rowers round the
slight bend. Looking out to sea they descried, about half a mile away,
the motor-boat, stationary, lapped by white-crested wavelets.
"By George! He's picked up some girls," exclaimed Armstrong.
There were certainly two parasols, a pink and a blue, at the stern of
the boat.
"The young dog!" cried Warrender. "And got them stranded on a sandbank.
But 'Three Blind Mice!' He's a rummy idea of entertaining girls."
The sound of the banjo ceased. "Ahoy!" came from the boat, and the two
parasols were agitated. The scullers pulled on.
"Heavens! It's Mrs. Crawshay and her daughter," said Warrender, after
glancing over his shoulder. Armstrong grinned.
"Twig?" he said. "Master Percy has been showing off."
"Silly young ass! Jolly lucky he hasn't wrecked 'em! I shall have to
talk to him."
They rowed almost up to the boat, keeping clear of the sandbank.
"Hullo, old sports," said Pratt. "Really, Phil, you ought to carry a
chart--an up-to-date one, you know, that would show all the coral reefs
and other traps for the hapless navigator. The Admiralty ought to mark
'em with buoys or lightships or something, but you can never expect
anything from the Government. There's no danger, of course. I assured
the ladies that they needn't be the least bit nervous or frightened, but
it's annoying to be pulled up when you don't want to be. I'm sure a
'bus conductor must get frightfully annoyed when the old 'bus is
spanking along and somebody wants to get in or out. I dare say you've
noticed it, Mrs. Crawshay; the conductor is so ratty at being
interrupted that he simply won't see the umbrella you're waving at him
from the kerb. Mrs. Crawshay and Miss Crawshay were kind enough to pay a
call on us at the camp this afternoon. It was just after you had gone,
and as it was far too early for tea, I thought it would be
interesting--what they call a treat, you know"--Pratt's impetuous tongue
had fairly run away with his _savoir faire_--"to take the ladies for a
spin, especially as they had never been in a motor-boat before. I
promised faithfully to bring them back to tea; you got some meringues
and things, of course--and I have a distinct grudge against fate for
making me out to be not a man of my word. There's no armour against----"
"Oh, Mr. Pratt, please!" Lilian Crawshay implored. "Mr. Warrender, can
you get us off?"
"I have given up all hope of tea," said Mrs. Crawshay, good-temperedly.
"We have friends coming to dinner, and Mr. Pratt tells me that we must
wait till the tide turns. Will that be long?"
"Three hours or so, I'm afraid," replied Warrender.
"Dear, dear! We shall be very late, Lilian," said Mrs. Crawshay.
"Can't you tug us off?" asked the girl.
"I'm sorry to say we haven't a hawser. But I think we could pull the
dinghy near enough for you to get into it, if Mrs. Crawshay would
venture?"
"I'll venture anything rather than wait here three hours," said the
lady, "though Mr. Pratt has been most kind. I have really quite enjoyed
it, but three hours more, you know----"
"It would be rather awful!" said Warrender, with a glance at Pratt, who
having succeeded in his object, to prevent certain disclosures, was
mopping his brow in the background. Now, however, he came forward.
"That's right, Phil," he said. "No nearer, or you'll run aground too."
He leapt overboard, and stood up to his knees in water. "I'll hold the
boat's nose, Mrs. Crawshay. Or perhaps I might take you in my arms
and----" "Bless the boy! You're getting your feet wet. No, no! I don't
think you shall take me in your arms."
"Or try pick-a-back? Or shall I make myself into a gangway for you to
walk over? I'd stand perfectly firm."
"If you would give me a hand! Lilian, my dear, jump in first. Then you
can each give me a hand, and I shall manage very nicely. Dear me! What
an adventure for an old woman!"
"Not at all," said Pratt. "I mean----"
"I am sure you do," said Mrs. Crawshay, interrupting. "Will you take my
parasol?"
Pratt meekly relieved her of the parasol, then turned to help the girl
into the dinghy. Lilian, however, sprang in without his aid, and
between them the two boys assisted the mother, who gave a sigh of relief
as she sank down upon the thwart.
[Illustration: "BETWEEN THEM THE TWO BOYS ASSISTED THE MOTHER"]
"We'll come back for you presently, Pratt," said Warrender, stiffly.
"Don't attempt to run up, mind."
"Good-bye, Mr. Pratt," said Mrs. Crawshay. "And thank you so much. When
you come up to dinner, be sure to bring your banjo."
The two boys pulled off, Pratt climbing back into the motor-boat.
"What a clever, amusing person Mr. Pratt is," said Mrs. Crawshay to
Armstrong, facing her. "So ready! And an excellent performer on the
banjo! We could never be dull in his company. He talked most amusingly,
then sang us song after song. Don't you think 'Two Eyes of Blue' very
pretty, Mr.----"
"Rather sentimental, isn't it?" said Armstrong, blushing.
"All his songs are sentimental. He was playing a very funny tune,
though, when you came round the bend. I was sure his voice was getting
tired, and asked him just to play. The tune was quite unknown to me,
but I thought it very cheering."
Meanwhile, at the other end of the boat, Lilian had been giving
explanations to Warrender.
"He intended just to bring us to the mouth of the river, but seemed to
have some difficulty in turning round. I think he said he wanted more
sea-room. At any rate, he ran out to sea, and then we stuck on that
wretched sandbank. He talked and sang to amuse us; he has quite a
pleasant voice, but his songs are dreadfully sentimental, aren't they?"
"Frightful tosh!" returned Warrender.
"Well, it was very good of him, especially when he must have been much
annoyed at the mishap, which, of course, wasn't his fault."
"No, of course not," said Warrender.
"You speak as if you thought it was."
"Oh, no. Any one might run on a hidden sandbank. But the fact is----"
"Yes?"
"You see, he was in charge of the camp."
"You mean he oughtn't to have come at all?"
"Naturally he thought it would please you and Mrs. Crawshay, but----"
"Oh!"
The girl said no more.
"She thought I was jealous, or huffy, or something," Warrender confided
to Armstrong later. "I wonder what she'd have said if I'd told her that
the idiot had never run a motor-boat before?"