As the Raven got under way once more, her wireless was sputtering
furiously. Probably, Ray thought, the materials required for repairs had
been obtained ashore. Certainly the sparks were flying merrily as the
yacht slipped away toward the Bristol Channel.
Ray lingered, loath to turn in. He would not sleep, he knew—not while
his brain was awhirl with the astounding events of the past twenty-four
hours.
It did not seem possible that, some thirty-six hours before, he and
Marjorie Benham had exchanged greetings with Harbor Grace. It was more
like a week, a month, even.
And now—well, he stood face to face with the strangest predicament that
ever fell to the lot of man. He only wondered why Starbuck did not make
an end of him at once. It would be so simple.
If his body turned up afterward, no question of murder would be raised.
And, of a sudden, he knew why he did not go to bed. He was too nervous;
he must keep awake and on his guard.
Once clear of the vessel, it would be different. But the temptation to
rid himself of his undesirable guest might prove too great for Starbuck.
Of course the fact that Eve Gaylord had seen him might have a bearing on
the case. It might complicate matters for Starbuck later on if he should
be apprehended. Ray wondered what the man’s scheme was, anyhow. How he
hoped to collect a ransom.
But, more than all, he marveled at the gullibility of the astute
American newspapers. How they had fallen for Starbuck and his yacht! Ray
acknowledged to himself that he had been quite as easy as the rest.
He had never heard of Miles Starbuck until the press burst into song, as
it were. Photographs of the Raven, of Mr. Starbuck, “South African
Millionaire.” Stories of the round-the-world cruise just ending. Lavish
hospitality to reporters aboard the yacht—followed by columns of good
stuff.
Bah! All one had to do was get a boat, hire a castle and spend a lot of
money and, if he had a reasonably clever press agent, he could build up
an astonishing reputation overnight, almost.
This, apparently, was what Starbuck had done—deliberately, that he might
carry out his plan for kidnaping Eve Gaylord.
A sweet bunch of crooks, that was all. But, for the undoing of Ray
Folsom, that was quite enough.
He thought vaguely of escape, had wild ideas of watching for another
craft passing fairly close and hurling himself overboard. But the vision
of Eve Gaylord’s alert face, as he had seen it for a split second,
through the door, somehow filled him with the desire to see the thing
through, to risk everything on the off chance of being able to compass
her freedom.
He told himself that it was silly, but—well, one adventure had merged
into another. Why not ride with the wind?
* * * * *
Just outside the Mersey Bar, Starbuck came to Ray with a startling radio
message. It had been sent by the American tanker Sunspot to the
Associated Press, New York:
Mrs. Jarvis Benham rescued at sea off Irish coast after plane
Silver Bird, in which she and Ray Folsom were attempting flight
to Warsaw, was wrecked in heavy sea. Motor trouble caused
descent. Folsom probably lost, as no trace of him found after
exhaustive research. Mrs. Benham suffering from exposure, but
not in serious condition.
“Thank God!” breathed Ray when he had scanned the message. “I don’t care
much what happens now.”
Starbuck smiled faintly. “I thought you would be pleased,” he said, and
went off to pass the news around.
Certainly a great load was lifted from Ray’s mind. He felt capable of
facing anything now.
But he had an overwhelming curiosity to see Eve Gaylord again, to talk
with her. He wondered if he would have that opportunity when Starbuck’s
island should be reached.
How was the girl reacting to the situation? he wondered. Was she
depressed or angry or calmly resigned?
Ray—basing his assumption on that one glimpse of her face—guessed that
she would not be too docile. Miss Dollis, he gathered, spent most of her
time with the girl.
Ray could not see why more freedom was not accorded the victim. She
could not escape, and it seemed cruel to hold the girl in her cabin
constantly. The reason, however, he learned later.
The Raven anchored well out in the river, and Starbuck prepared to go
ashore. With him went Count Markowski and Mrs. Trine.
Ray idled on the deck, half tempted to leap overboard and swim for it.
He might possibly be able to raise an alarm before the Raven could get
away.
But the distance was more than a mile to the nearest landing stage, and
should he fail to make it, Eve Gaylord would be worse off than ever. As
it was, he might find himself in a position to help her.
As if in answer to the thought, the quiet voice of Koli said, almost in
Ray’s ear, “No jump, Missa Folsom. Missa Starbuck, he say no let Missa
Folsom go swimmin’. Water too cold, much.”
In the hand of the Jap, Ray discerned the blued snout of an automatic
and did not waste time figuring how far he would get, even if the risk
seemed worth taking. So he grinned at the Jap.
“Yes, much too cold,” he agreed.
Presently Starbuck returned in the launch. Count Markowski and the Trine
woman did not accompany him, and shortly afterward the Raven turned her
nose to the north.