What was this, this new comfort? He was relaxed, warm, enveloped in
softness. Incredible!
For a moment Ray dared not open his eyes. He wanted to do so. He wanted
to understand why he felt as if he was coming back from a far distance.
He was very tired and, of a sudden, he realized that his head was aching
horribly.
With an effort, he lifted reluctant lids, stared about him.
White paint, gleaming white paint. Orderly rows of rivets. A silvered
steam pipe. The stateroom of a vessel, that was clear.
For a moment Ray gazed quietly at the iron ceiling, as yet too languid
to wonder how he came to be there. Then he was spurred to action by the
recollection of the last vision he recalled—Marjorie Benham, struggling
in an icy sea!
He tried to draw himself up, was beaten back by an exquisite stab of
pain through his head. But his ears caught a sound and a face suddenly
bent over his—a curious, tightly drawn face, yellow and dry looking. A
thin voice said: “You wake, Missa Folsom?”
“Mrs. Benham?” Ray managed weakly.
The eyes looking into his appeared puzzled. “You wait. I go see,”
returned the other, who by now Ray had set down as a Japanese.
There was a patter of slippered feet, a wait that seemed interminable to
Ray. He kept his eyes closed; his head bothered less that way. It was
not until he heard the murmur of voices that he ventured to look about
again.
When he did, he saw that the Jap had returned and that he was
accompanied by a tall, bronzed individual with brilliant blue eyes and a
tiny, waxed mustache. The face, Ray thought, was vaguely familiar.
The blue eyes were grave now as their owner said, softly: “So Mrs.
Benham was with you. We had hoped that the plans had been changed at the
last minute.”
Ray choked on the words: “Didn’t—didn’t—you—”
The other shook his head.
“We searched everywhere—for two hours. Not a sign. It seemed strange.
But, of course, the fog and the terrible sea—”
He stopped, as if unable to go on.
Ray said: “My God! My God!” He was too giddy and weak to think clearly.
The other had drawn a stool up beside the bed.
“How do you feel?” he asked. “You got a nasty one on the head.”
“I’m all right,” Ray told him in a whisper. “But—but—Mrs. Benham—” His
throat grew too tight for further words.
The other said: “I know. I know. We did all we could.” He spoke to the
Jap, who stood close behind him. “Koli, bring some whisky.”
A husky draft of the liquor sent new life coursing through the veins of
the man in the bed.
“Tell me,” he addressed the other, “what ship is this—and you, sir?”
“This is the yacht Raven,” replied the man. “I am Miles Starbuck.”
“Oh, yes,” Ray murmured.
He knew now why the man had seemed familiar. For more than a month, the
Raven and her owner, Miles Starbuck, had been freely mentioned and
photographed in the press. Starbuck, heralded before he arrived in
America as a fabulously wealthy diamond manipulator—owner of mines in
South Africa—had entertained and had been entertained luxuriously in a
dozen Eastern cities. His hosts had been some of the most prominent
American society folk.
The Raven had sailed some days before the Silver Bird started on her
ill-fated flight, bound, it had been stated, for the north of England or
Scotland—wherever it was that Miles Starbuck’s estate, acquired from the
heirs of the late Lord Derricote, was located.
Now, Starbuck, observing that the whisky had improved the patient’s
condition, resumed: “You’ll be all right shortly. That wound just
escaped being fatal. (I’m a bit of a doctor.) But there is not much
concussion and a day or two will see you as right as rain. For the
present you’d best lie quietly in bed. I’ll have Koli bring you
something to eat, a cup of broth, perhaps.”
“But, tell me,” Ray insisted, “where are we? How close did we come to
hitting Ireland?”
“We’re about two hundred miles off Queenstown—or Cobh, as they call it
now. We can put you ashore there, if you like.”
“Have you reported picking us—picking me up?”
“No. Unfortunately, just after we advised you that we were standing by,
our wireless went bad and so far, Sparks hasn’t been able to make
repairs. That’s why we took to the fog horn.”
“I see,” Ray murmured. “When shall we make Cobh?”
“Some time tonight—probably before midnight. Depends on the tide and it
won’t be worth while trying to go ashore before morning.”
Koli appeared at that moment with a cup of steaming broth. Starbuck
rose.
“I’ll toddle off now. Drop in on you a bit later. Take it easy, it’ll
pay you better.” He went softly out.
Ray sipped his broth thoughtfully. He was inexpressibly sad over the
fate of his companion, but realized that brooding over the disaster
would be worse than useless.
He was naturally thankful for having been himself spared and gave some
thought to his procedure when he should land at Cobh.
The broth did wonders for him and the ache in his head subsided
amazingly. So that, an hour later, Ray said to the hovering Koli: “I
think I’d like to get up. Are my clothes in shape to wear?”
The Jap shook his head. “Clo’ no dry, Missa Folsom. But I see.”
He disappeared, only to return promptly with Starbuck. The latter
expressed surprise that Ray thought of rising.
“It’s risky,” he said. “But that, of course, is up to you. I have plenty
of togs and we are about of a size, I imagine. So I’ll have some things
sent in directly.”
Thirty minutes afterward, attired in a gray tweed suit that fitted him
astonishingly well, Ray followed Koli to the lounge where his host
awaited him, flanked by a taboret containing a most satisfactory array
of decanters and soda bottles.
Here they were joined presently by a number of people to whom Ray was
presented and whose names he recalled as having seen mentioned in
newspaper accounts of the American sojourn of Starbuck and his guests.
These included a Count Johann Markowski, who, Ray understood, was a
Polish nobleman. There was a Mrs. Mollie Trine and a Miss Fay
Dollis—both English.
Starbuck’s skipper, Captain Trumper, also dropped in for a moment to pay
his respects to the rescued airman. A somewhat gay company, just what
one would expect to find aboard the yacht of a wealthy bachelor.
Ray studied them in turn. He did not much like the count who seemed to
him sort of decayed—a slight little man with thin hair and too sharp an
eye. Clever, no doubt, but not the sort Ray would select for a
companion.
Mrs. Trine was a talkative individual who evidently kept well abreast of
current events, including slang and scandal. She laughed often and drank
rather more than she ought to.
Miss Dollis, on the other hand, was more to Ray’s liking. She lurked, it
appeared, behind a natural reserve, and spoke seldom. But what she did
say was very much to the point.
She had, Ray thought, a very keen sense of humor; he felt sure that
quiet, inward chuckles were much in her line. He could see, too, that
she was regarding him with considerable interest.
Trumper, the skipper, registered as a hard, lean person, utterly without
illusions and extremely competent. The steward, Starbuck addressed as
Sayles, and a couple of cabin attendants, Grundy and Mapes, appeared
briefly in the picture. Koli was everywhere, at all times.
On the whole, Ray was a bit disappointed, aside from the tragedy of
Marjorie Benham’s loss, at the tame manner in which his great adventure
was ending. A brief ducking, then luxury aboard a private yacht. A mild
voyage home on a liner and that would terminate the business.
There would be a two-day flurry in the papers, largely on account of the
death of Mrs. Benham. He himself had accomplished nothing of interest to
anybody.
Bah! But if he could have looked ahead only a few hours his opinion
would have been smartly revised. Tame—nothing!