Blue Hand

“Where is Villa?”

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

THE room into which Jim was thrust differed little from those chambers he had already seen, save that it was smaller. The floorboards were broken, and there were holes in the wainscot which he understood long before he heard the scamper of the rats’ feet.

He was trussed like a fowl, his hands were so tightly corded together that he could not move them, and his ankles roped so that it was next to impossible to lever himself to his feet.

“What a life!” said Jim philosophically, and prepared himself for a long, long wait.

He did not doubt that Digby would leave immediately, and Jim faced the prospect of being left alone in the house, to make his escape or die. He was fully determined not to die, and already his busy mind had evolved a plan which he would put into execution as soon as he knew he was not under observation.

But Digby remained in the house, as he was to learn.

An hour passed, and then the door was snapped open and Digby came in, followed by a man at the sight of whom Jim grinned. It was Bronson, looking ludicrous in Jim’s clothes, which were two sizes too large for him.

“They discovered you, did they, Bronson!” he chuckled. “Well, here am I as you were, and presently somebody will discover me, and then I shall be calling on you in Dartmoor, some time this year, to see how you are going along. Nice place Dartmoor, and the best part of the prison is Block B.—central heating, gas, hot water laid on, and every modern convenience except tennis—”

“Where is Villa?” asked Digby.

“I don’t know for a fact,” said Jim pleasantly, “but I can guess.”

“Where is he?” roared Bronson, his face purple with rage.

Jim smiled, and in another minute the man’s open hand had struck him across the face, but still Jim smiled, though there was something in his eyes that made Bronson quail.

“Now, Steele, there’s no sense in your refusing to answer,” said Digby. “We want to know what you have done with Villa. Where is he?”

“In hell,” said Jim calmly. “I’m not a whale on theology, Groat, but if men are punished according to their deserts, then undoubtedly your jovial pal is in the place where the bad men go and there is little or no flying.”

“Do you mean that he is dead?” asked Digby, livid.

“I should think he is,” said Jim carefully. “We were over five thousand feet when I looped the loop from sheer happiness at finding myself once again with a joy-stick in my hand, and I don’t think your friend Villa had taken certain elementary precautions. At any rate, when I looked round, where was Villa? He was flying through the air on his own, Groat, and my experience is that when a man starts flying without his machine, the possibility of making a good landing is fairly remote.”

“You killed him,” said Bronson between his teeth, “damn you!”

“Shut up,” snapped Digby. “We know what we want to know. Where did you throw him out?”

“Somewhere around,” said Jim carelessly. “I chose a deserted spot. I should have hated it if he had hurt anybody when he fell.”

Digby went out of the room without a word, and locked the door behind him, and did not speak until he was back in the room where he had left Villa less than a week before. He shuddered as he thought of the man’s dreadful end.

The two Spaniards were there, and they had business which could not be postponed. Digby had hoped they would rely on his promise and wait until he had readied a place of safety before they insisted on a share-out, but they were not inclined to place too high a value upon their chief’s word. Their share was a large one, and Digby hated the thought of paying them off, but it had to be done. He had still a considerable fortune. No share had gone to the other members of the gang.

“What are your plans?” asked Xavier Silva.

“I’m going to Canada,” replied Digby. “You may watch the agony columns of the newspapers for my address.”

The Spaniard grinned.

“I shall be watching for something more interesting,” he said, “for my friend and I are returning to Spain. And Bronson, does he go with you?”

Digby nodded.

It was necessary, now that Villa had gone, to take the airman into his confidence. He had intended leaving his shadow in the lurch, a fact which Bronson did not suspect. He sent the two men into the grounds to give the machine an examination, and Jim, sitting in his room, heard the noise of the engine and struggled desperately to free his hands. If he could only get up to his feet! All his efforts must be concentrated upon that attempt.

Presently the noise ceased; Xavier Silva was a clever mechanic, and he had detected that something was wrong with one of the cylinders.

“Tuning up!” murmured Jim.

So he had more time than he had hoped for.

He heard a step on the stone terrace, and through the window caught a glimpse of Bronson passing. Digby had sent the man into the village to make judicious inquiries as to Villa’s fate.

Curiously enough, the three men who had watched the approaching aeroplane from the terrace of Kennett Hall had been unconscious of Villa’s doom, although they were witnesses of the act. They had seen the loop in the sky and Digby had thought no more than that Bronson was showing off to the girl, and had cursed him roundly for his folly. Villa’s body must be near at hand. How near, Bronson was to discover at the village inn.

After the man had left, Digby went to look at his second prisoner, and found her walking up and down the room into which she had been put for safety.

“Did you like your aeroplane journey, Eunice?” he asked blandly.

She did not reply.

“Rather thrilling and exciting, wasn’t it? And were you a witness to the murder of my friend Villa?”

She looked up at him.

“I don’t remember that your friend Villa was murdered,” she said, ready to defend Jim of any charge that this man might trump up against him.

He read her thoughts.

“Don’t worry about Mr. Steele,” he said dryly. “I am not charging him with murder. In fact, I have no time. I am leaving tomorrow night as soon as it is dark, and you are coming with me by aeroplane.”

She did not answer this.

“I am hoping that you won’t mind a brief immersion in the sea,” he said. “I cannot guarantee that we can land on my yacht.”

She turned round. On his yacht! That, then, was the plan. She was to be carried off to a yacht, and the yacht was to take her—where?

There was a clatter of feet in the outer room and he opened the door. One glance at Bronson’s face told him that he had important news.

“Well?” he asked sharply.

“They’ve found Villa’s body. I saw a reporter at the inn,” said the man breathlessly.

“Do they know who it is?” asked Digby, and Bronson nodded.

“What?” asked Digby, startled. “They know his name is Villa?”

Again the man nodded.

“They found a paper in his pocket, a receipt for the sale of a yacht,” he said, and through the open doorway Eunice saw the man shrink back.

“Then they know about the yacht?”

The news confounded him and shook him from his calm. If the police knew about the yacht his difficulties became all but insuperable, and the danger which threatened him loomed up like a monstrous overwhelming shape. Digby Groat was not built to meet such stunning emergencies and he went all to pieces under the shock.

Eunice, watching him through the open door, saw his pitiable collapse. In a second he had changed from the cool, self-possessed man who had sneered at danger into a babbling fretful child who cursed and wrung his hands, issuing incoherent orders only to countermand them before his messenger had left the room.

“Kill Steele!” he screamed. “Kill him, Bronson. Damn him—no, no, stay! Get the machine ready… we leave tonight.”

He turned to the girl, glaring at her.

“We leave tonight, Eunice! Tonight you and I will settle accounts!”

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

HER heart sank, and it came to her, with terrifying force, that her great trial was near at hand. She had taunted Digby with his cowardice, but she knew that he would show no mercy to her, and unwillingly she had played into his hands by admitting that she knew she was the heiress to the Danton fortune and that she had known his character, and yet had elected to stay in his house.

The door was slammed and locked, and she was left alone. Later she heard for the second time the splutter and crash of the aeroplane’s engines as the Spaniard tuned them up.

She must get away—she must, she must! She looked round wildly for some means of escape. The windows were fastened. There was no other door from the room. Her only hope was Jim, and Jim, she guessed, was a close prisoner.

Digby lost no time. He dispatched Silva in the car, telling him to make the coast as quickly as possible, and to warn the captain of the Pealigo to be ready to receive him that night. He wrote rapidly a code of signals. When in sight of the sea Bronson was to fire a green signal light, to which the yacht must respond. A boat must be lowered on the shoreward side of the yacht ready to pick them up. After the messenger had left he remembered that he had already given the same orders to the captain, and that it was humanly impossible for the Spaniard to reach the yacht that night.

Digby had in his calmer moments made other preparations. Two inflated life-belts were taken to the aeroplane and tested, signal pistols, landing lights, and other paraphernalia connected with night flying were stowed in the fuselage. Bronson was now fully occupied with the motor of the aeroplane, for the trouble had not been wholly eradicated, and Digby Groat paced up and down the terrace of the house, fuming with impatience and sick with fear.

He had not told the girl to prepare, that must be left to the very last. He did not want another scene. For the last time he would use his little hypodermic syringe and the rest would be easy.

Fuentes joined him on the terrace, for Fuentes was curious for information.

“Do you think that the finding of Villa’s body will bring them after us here?”

“How do I know?” snapped Digby, “and what does it matter, anyway? We shall be gone in an hour?”

“You will,” said the Spaniard pointedly, “but I shan’t. I have no machine to carry me out of the country, and neither has Xavier, though he is better off than I am—he has the car. Couldn’t you take me?”

“It is utterly impossible,” said Digby irritably. “They won’t be here tonight, and you needn’t worry yourself. Before the morning, you will have put a long way between you and Kennett Hall.”

He spoke in Spanish, the language which the man was employing, but Fuentes was not impressed.

“What about that man?” He jerked his thumb to the west wing, and a thought occurred to Digby. Could he persuade his hitherto willing slave to carry out a final instruction?

“He is your danger,” he said. “Do you realize, my dear Fuentes, that this man can bring us all to destruction? And nobody knows he is here, except you and me.”

“And that ugly Englishman,” corrected Fuentes.

“Masters doesn’t know what has happened to him. We could tell him that he went with us!”

He looked at the other keenly, but Fuentes was purposely stupid.

“Now what do you say, my dear Fuentes,” said Digby, “shall we allow this man to live and give evidence against us, when a little knock on the head would remove him for ever?”

Fuentes turned his dark eyes to Digby’s, and he winked.

“Well, kill him, my dear Groat,” he mocked. “Do not ask me to stay behind and be found with the body, for I have a wholesome horror of English gaols, and an unspeakable fear of death.”

“Are you afraid?” asked Digby.

“As afraid as you,” said the Spaniard. “If you wish to kill him, by all means do so. And yet, I do not know that I would allow you to do that,” he mused, “for you would be gone and I should be left. No, no, we will not interfere with our courageous Englishman. He is rather a fine fellow.” Digby turned away in disgust.

The “fine fellow” at that moment had, by almost super-human effort, raised himself to his feet. It had required something of the skill of an acrobat and the suppleness and ingenuity of a contortionist, and it involved supporting himself with his head against the wall for a quarter of an hour whilst he brought his feet to the floor; but he had succeeded.

The day was wearing through and the afternoon was nearly gone before he had accomplished this result. His trained ear told him that the aeroplane was now nearly ready for departure, and once he had caught a glimpse of Digby wearing a lined leather jacket. But there was no sign of the girl. As to Eunice, he steadfastly kept her out of his thoughts. He needed all his courage and coolness, and even the thought of her, which, in spite of his resolution, flashed across his mind, brought him agonizing distress.

He hopped cautiously to the window and listened. There was no sound and he waited until Bronson—he guessed it was Bronson—started the engines again. Then with his elbow he smashed out a pane of glass, leaving a jagged triangular piece firmly fixed in the ancient putty. Carefully he lifted up his bound hands, straining at the rope which connected them with the bonds about his feet, and which was intended to prevent his raising his hands higher than the level of his waist.

By straining at the rope and standing on tiptoe, he brought the end of the connecting link across the sharp jagged edge of the glass. Two strokes, and the rope was severed. His hands were still bound and to cut through them without injury to himself was a delicate operation. Carefully he sawed away, and first one and then the other cord was cut through. His hands were red and swollen, his wrists had no power until he had massaged them.

He snapped off the triangular piece of glass and applied it to the cords about his feet, and in a minute he was free. Free, but in a locked room. Still, the window-sash should not prove an insuperable obstacle. There was nothing which he could use as a weapon, but his handy feet smashed at the frames, only to discover that they were of iron. Jonathan Danton’s father had had a horror of burglars, and all the window-frames on the lower floor had been made in a foundry. The door was the only egress left and it was too stout to smash.

He listened at the keyhole. There was no sound. The light was passing from the sky and night was coming on. They would be leaving soon, he guessed, and grew frantic. Discarding all caution, he kicked at the panels, but they resisted his heavy boots, and then he heard a sound that almost stopped his heart beating.

A shrill scream from Eunice. Again and again he flung his weight at the door, but it remained immovable, and then came a shout from the ground outside. He ran to the window and listened.

“They are coming, the police!”

It was the Spaniard’s throbbing voice. He had run until he was exhausted. Jim saw in stagger past the window and heard Digby say something to him sharply. There was a patter of feet and silence.

Jim wiped the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his coat and looked round desperately for some means of getting out of the room. The fireplace! It was a big, old-fashioned fire-basket, that stood on four legs in a yawning gap of chimney. He looked at it; it was red with rust and it had the appearance of being fixed, but he lifted it readily. Twice he smashed at the door and the second time it gave way, and dropping the grate with a crash he flew down the passage out of the house.

As he turned the corner he heard the roar of the aeroplane and above its drone the sound of a shot. He leapt the balustrade, sped through the garden and came in sight of the aeroplane as it was speeding from him.

“My God!” said Jim with a groan, for the machine had left the ground and was zooming steeply up into the darkening sky.

And then he saw something. From the long grass near where the machine had been a hand rose feebly and fell again. He ran across to where he had seen this strange sight. In a few minutes he was kneeling by the side of Fuentes. The man was dying. He knew that long before he had seen the wound in his breast.

“He shot me, senor,” gasped Fuentes, “and I was his friend… I asked him to take me to safety… and he shot me!”

The man was still alive when the police came on the spot; still alive when Septimus Salter, in his capacity of Justice of the Peace, took down his dying statement.

“Digby Groat shall hang for this, Steele,” said the lawyer; but Jim made no reply. He had his own idea as to how Digby Groat would die.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

THE lawyer explained his presence without preliminary, and Jim listened moodily.

“I came with them myself because I know the place,” said Mr. Salter, looking at Jim anxiously. “You look ghastly, Steele. Can’t you lie down and get some sleep?”

“I feel that I shall never sleep until I have got my hand on Digby Groat. What was it you saw in the paper? Tell me again. How did they know it was Villa?”

“By a receipt in his pocket,” replied Salter. “It appears that Villa, probably acting on behalf of Digby Groat, had purchased from Maxilla, the Brazilian gambler, his yacht, the Pealigo—”

Jim uttered a cry.

“That is where he has gone,” he said. “Where is the Pealigo?”

“That I have been trying to find out,” replied the lawyer, shaking his head, “but nobody seems to know. She left Havre a few days ago, but what her destination was, nobody knows. She has certainly not put in to any British port so far as we can ascertain. Lloyd’s were certain of this, and every ship, whether it is a yacht, a liner, or a cargo tramp, is reported to Lloyd’s.”

“That is where he has gone,” said Jim.

“Then she must be in port,” said old Salter eagerly. “We can telegraph to every likely place—”

Jim interrupted him with a shake of his head.

“Bronson would land on the water and sink the machine. It is a very simple matter,” he said. “I have been in the sea many times and there is really no danger, if you are provided with life-belts, and are not strapped to the seat. It is foul luck your not coming before.”

He walked weakly from the comfortable parlour of the inn where the conversation had taken place.

“Do you mind if I am alone for a little while? I want to think,” he said.

He turned as he was leaving the room.

“In order not to waste time, Mr. Salter,” he said quietly, “have you any influence with the Admiralty? I want the loan of a seaplane.”

Mr. Salter looked thoughtful.

“That can be fixed,” he said. “I will get on to the ‘phone straight away to the Admiralty and try to get the First Sea Lord. He will do all that he can to help us.”

Whilst the lawyer telephoned, Jim made a hasty meal. The pace had told on him and despair was in his heart.

The knowledge that Digby Groat would eventually be brought to justice did not comfort him. If Eunice had only been spared he would have been content to see Digby make his escape, and would not have raised his hand to stop him going. He would have been happy even if, in getting away, the man had been successful in carrying off the girl’s fortune. But Eunice was in his wicked hands and the thought of it was unendurable.

He was invited by the local police-sergeant to step across to the little lock-up to interview the man Masters, who was under arrest, and as Mr. Salter had not finished telephoning, he crossed the village street and found the dour man in a condition of abject misery.

“I knew he’d bring me into this,” he bewailed, “and me with a wife and three children and not so much as a poaching case against me! Can’t you speak a word for me, sir?”

Jim’s sense of humour was never wholly smothered and the cool request amused him.

“I can only say that you tried to strangle me,” he said. “I doubt whether that good word will be of much service to you.”

“I swear I didn’t mean to,” pleaded the man. “He told me to put the rope round your shoulders and it slipped. How was I to know that the lady wasn’t his wife who’d run away with you?”

“So that is the story he told you?” said Jim.

“Yes, sir,” the man said eagerly. “I pointed out to Mr. Groat that the lady hadn’t a wedding-ring, but he said that he was married all right and he was taking her to sea—”

“To sea?”

Masters nodded.

“That’s what he said, sir—he said she wasn’t right in her head and the sea voyage would do her a lot of good.”

Jim questioned him closely without getting any further information. Masters knew nothing of the steamer on which Digby and his “wife” were to sail, or the port at which he would embark.

Outside the police station Jim interviewed the sergeant.

“I don’t think this man was any more than a dupe of Groat’s,” he said, “and I certainly have no charge to make against him.”

The sergeant shook his head.

“We must hold him until we have had the inquest on the Spaniard,” he said, and then, gloomily, “to think that I had a big case like this right under my nose and hadn’t the sense to see it!”

Jim smiled a little sadly.

“We have all had the case under our noses, sergeant, and we have been blinder than you!”

The threat of a renewed dose of the drug had been sufficient to make Eunice acquiescent. Resistance, she knew, was useless. Digby could easily overpower her for long enough to jab his devilish needle into her arm.

She had struggled at first and had screamed at the first prick from the needle-point. It was that scream Jim had heard.

“I’ll go with you; I promise you I will not give you any trouble,” she said. “Please don’t use that dreadful thing again.”

Time was pressing and it would be easier to make his escape if the girl did not resist than if she gave him trouble.

The propeller was ticking slowly round when they climbed into the fuselage.

“There is room for me, senor. There must be room for me!”

Digby looked down into the distorted face of the Spaniard who had come running after him.

“There is no room for you, Fuentes,” he said. “I have told you before. You must get away as well as you can.”

“I am going with you!”

To Digby’s horror, the man clung desperately to the side of the fuselage. Every moment was increasing their peril, and in a frenzy he whipped out his pistol.

“Let go,” he hissed, “or I’ll kill you,” but still the man held on.

There were voices coming from the lower path, and, in his panic, Digby fired. He saw the man crumple and fall and yelled to Bronson: “Go, go!”

Eunice, a horrified spectator, could only stare at the thing which had been Digby Groat, for the change which had come over him was extraordinary. He seemed to have shrunk in stature. His face was twisted, like a man who had had a stroke of paralysis.

She thought this was the case, but slowly he began to recover.

He had killed a man! The horror of this act was upon him, the fear of the consequence which would follow overwhelmed him and drove him into a momentary frenzy. He had killed a man! He could have shrieked at the thought. He, who had so carefully guarded himself against punishment, who had manoeuvred his associates into danger, whilst he himself stood in a safe place, was now a fugitive from a justice which would not rest until it had laid him by the heel.

And she had seen him, she, the woman at his side, and would go into the box and testify against him! And they would hang him! In that brick-lined pit of which Jim Steele had spoken. All these thoughts flashed through his mind in a second, even before the machine left the ground, but with the rush of cold air and the inevitable exhilaration of flight, he began to think calmly again.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

BRONSON had killed him, that was the comforting defence. Bronson, who was now guiding him to safety, and who would, if necessary, give his life for him. Bronson should bear the onus of that act.

They were well up now, and the engines were a smooth “b-r-r” of sound. A night wind was blowing and the plane rocked from side to side. It made the girl feel a little sick, but she commanded her brain to grow accustomed to the motion, and after a while the feeling of nausea wore off.

They could see the sea now. The flashing signals of the lighthouses came from left and right. Bristol, a tangle of fiery spots, lay to their left, and there were tiny gleams of light on the river and estuary.

They skirted the northern shore of the Bristol Channel and headed west, following the coastline. Presently the machine turned due south, leaving behind them the land and its girdle of lights. Twenty minutes later Bronson fired his signal pistol. A ball of brilliant green fire curved up and down and almost immediately, from the sea, came an answering signal. Digby strapped the girl’s life-belt tighter, and saw to the fastening of his own.

“Fix my belt.” It was Bronson shouting through the telephone, and Digby, leaning forward, fastened the life-belt about the pilot’s waist. He fastened it carefully and added a, stout strap, tying the loose end of the leather in a knot. Down went the machine in a long glide toward the light which still burnt, and now the girl could see the outlines of the graceful yacht and the green and red lights it showed. They made a circle, coming lower and lower every second, until they were spinning about the yacht not more than a dozen feet from the sea. Bronson shut off his engines and brought the machine upon the water, less than fifty feet from the waiting boat.

Instantly the aeroplane sank under them, leaving them in the sea. It was a strange sensation, thought the girl, for the water was unusually warm.

She heard a shriek and turned, and then Digby caught her hand.

“Keep close to me,” he said in a whimpering voice, “you might be lost in the darkness.”

She knew that he was thinking of himself. A light flared from the oncoming boat, and she looked round. In spite of herself, she asked:

“Where is the man?”

Bronson was nowhere in sight. Digby did not trouble to turn his head or answer. He reached up and gripped the gunwale of the boat and in a minute Eunice was lifted out of the water. She found herself in a small cutter which was manned by brown-faced men, who she thought at first were Japanese.

“Where is Bronson?” she asked again in a panic, but Digby did not reply. He sat immovable, avoiding her eyes, and she could have shrieked her horror. Bronson had gone down with the aeroplane! The strap which Digby had fastened about his waist, he had cunningly attached to the seat itself, and had fastened it so that it was impossible for the pilot to escape.

He was the first up the gangway on to the white deck of the yacht, and turning, he offered his hand to her.

“Welcome to the Pealigo,” he said in his mocking voice.

Then it was not fear that had kept him silent. She could only look at him.

“Welcome to the Pealigo, my little bride,” he said, and she knew that the man who had not hesitated to murder his two comrades in cold blood would have no mercy on her.

A white-coated stewardess came forward, and said something in a language which Eunice did not understand. She gathered that the woman was deputed to show her the way to the cabin. Glad to be free from the association of Digby, she passed down the companion-way, through a lobby panelled in rosewood, into a cabin, the luxury of which struck her, even though her nerves were shattered, and she was incapable of taking an interest in anything outside the terrible fact that she was alone on a yacht with Digby Groat.

Extravagance had run riot here, and the Brazilian must have lavished a fortune in the decoration and appointments.

The saloon ran the width of the ship and was as deep as it was broad. Light was admitted from portholes cunningly designed, so that they had the appearance of old-fashioned casement windows. A great divan, covered in silk, ran the length of the cabin on one side, whilst the other was occupied by a silver bedstead, hung with rose silk curtains. Rose-shaded lights supplied the illumination, and the lamps were fashioned like torches and were held by beautiful classical figures placed in niches about the room.

She came to the conclusion that it was a woman’s room and wondered if there were any other women on board but the stewardess. She asked that woman, but apparently she knew no English, and the few words in Spanish which she had learnt did not serve her to any extent.

The suite was complete, she discovered, for behind the heavy silken curtains at the far end of the cabin there was a door which gave to a small sitting-room and a bathroom. It must be a woman’s. In truth, it was designed especially by Senor Maxilla for his own comfort.

Lying on the bed was a complete change of clothing. It was brand-new and complete to the last detail. Digby Groat could be very thorough.

She dismissed the woman, and bolting the door, made a complete change, for the third time since she had left Grosvenor Square.

The boat was under way now. She could feel the throb of its engines, and the slight motion that it made in the choppy sea. The Pealigo was one of the best sea boats afloat, and certainly one of the fastest yachts in commission.

She had finished her changing when a knock came at the door and she opened it to find Digby standing on the mat.

“You had better come and have some dinner,” he said.

He was quite his old self, and whatever emotions had disturbed him were now completely under control.

She shrank back and tried to close the floor, but now he was not standing on ceremony. Grasping her arm roughly, he dragged her out into the passage.

“You’re going to behave yourself while you’re on this ship,” he said. “I’m master here, and there is no especial reason why I should show you any politeness.”

“You brute, you beast!” she flamed at him, and he smiled.

“Don’t think that because you’re a woman it is going to save you anything in the way of punishment,” he warned her. “Now be sensible and come along to the dining-saloon.”

“I don’t want to eat,” she said.

“You will come into the dining-saloon whether you want to or not.”

The saloon was empty save for the two and a dark-skinned waiter, and, like her own cabin, it was gorgeously decorated, a veritable palace in miniature, with its dangling electrolier, its flowers, and its marble mantelpiece at the far end.

The table was laid with a delicious meal, but Eunice felt she would choke if she took a morsel.

“Eat,” said Digby, attacking the soup which had been placed before him.

She shook her head.

“If you don’t,” and his eyes narrowed, “if you don’t, my good soul, I will find a way of making you eat,” he said. “Remember,” he put his hand in his pocket, pulled out the hateful little black case (it was wet, she noticed) and laid it on the table, “at any rate, you will be obedient enough when I use this!”

She picked up her spoon meekly and began to drink the soup, and he watched her with an amused smile.

She was surprised to find how hungry she was, and made no attempt to deny the chicken en casserole, nor the sweet that followed, but resolutely she refused to touch the wine that the steward poured out for her, and Digby did not press her.

“You’re a fool, you know, Eunice.” Digby lit a cigar without asking permission, and leaning back in his chair, looked at her critically. “There is a wonderful life ahead for you if you are only intelligent. Why worry about a man like Steele? A poor beggar, without a penny in the world—”

“You forget that I have no need of money, Mr. Groat,” she said with spirit. Any reference to Jim aroused all that was savage in her. “I have not only the money which you have not stolen from my estate, but when you are arrested and in prison, I shall recover all that you have now, including this yacht, if it is yours.”

Her answer made him chuckle.

“I like spirit,” he said. “You can’t annoy me, Eunice, my darling. So you like our yacht—our honeymoon yacht?” he added.

To this, she made no reply.

“But suppose you realise how much I love you.” He leant over and caught her hand in both of his and his eyes devoured her. “Suppose you realise that, Eunice, and knew I would give my life—my very soul—to make you happy, wouldn’t that make a difference?”

“Nothing would make a difference to my feelings, Mr. Groat,” she said. “The only chance you have of earning my gratitude is to put in at the nearest port and set me ashore.”

“And where do I set myself?” he asked coolly. “Be as intelligent as you are beautiful, Eunice. No, no, I shall be very glad to make you happy, so long as I get a little of the happiness myself, but I do not risk imprisonment and death.” He shivered, and hated himself that he had been surprised into this symptom of fear and hated her worst, having noticed that.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“We are bound to South America,” said Digby, “and it may interest you to learn that we are following a track which is not usually taken by the South American traffic. We shall skirt Ireland and take what Americans call the Western Ocean route, until we are within 1000 miles of Long Island, when we shall turn due south. By this way we avoid being sighted by the American ships, and we also avoid—”

The man who came in at that moment, Eunice thought must be the captain.

He wore three rings of gold about his wrist, but he was not her ideal of a seaman. Under-sized, lame in one foot, his parchment face of stiff black hair almost convinced her that this was a Japanese boat after all.

“You must meet the captain,” said Digby, introducing him, “and you had better make friends with him.”

Eunice thought that the chances of her making friends with that uncompromising little man were remote.

“What is it, captain?” asked Digby in Portuguese.

“We have just picked up a wireless; I thought you’d like to see it.”

“I had forgotten we had wireless,” said Digby as he took the message from the man’s hand.

It was ill-spelt, having been written by a Brazilian who had no knowledge of English and had set down the message letter by letter as he received it. Skipping the errors of transmission, Digby read;

“To all ships westward, southward, and homeward bound. Keep a sharp look out for the yacht Pealigo and report by wireless, position and bearing, to Inspector Rite, Scotland Yard.”

Eunice did not understand what they were talking about, but she saw a frown settle on Digby’s forehead, and guessed that the news was bad. If it was bad for him, then it was very good for her, she thought, and her spirits began to rise.

“You had better go to bed, Eunice,” said Digby. “I want to talk to the captain.”

She rose, and only the captain rose with her.

“Sit down,” said Digby testily. “You are not here to do the honours to Mrs. Digby Groat.”

She did not hear the last words, for she was out of the saloon as quickly as she could go. She went back to her own cabin, shut the door, and put up her hand to shoot home the bolt, but while she had been at dinner somebody had been busy. The bolt was removed and the key of the door was gone!

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

EUNICE stared at the door. There was no mistake. The bolts had recently been removed and the raw wood showed where the screws had been taken out.

The Pealigo was rolling now, and she had a difficulty in keeping her balance, but she made her way round the cabin, gathering chairs, tables, everything that was movable, and piling them up against the door. She searched the drawers of the bureau for some weapon which might have been left by its former occupant, but there was nothing more formidable than a golden-backed hairbrush which the plutocratic Maxilla had overlooked.

The bathroom yielded nothing more than a long-handled brush, whilst her sitting-room made no return for her search.

She sat watching the door as the hours passed, but no attempt was made to enter the cabin. A bell rang at intervals on the deck: she counted eight. It was midnight. How long would it be before Digby Groat came?

At that moment a pale-faced Digby Groat, his teeth chattering, sat in the cabin of the wireless operator, reading a message which had been picked up. Part was in code, and evidently addressed to the Admiralty ships cruising in the vicinity, but the longer message was in plain English and was addressed:

“To the chief officers of all ships. To the Commanders of H.M. ships: to all Justices of the Peace, officers of the police Great Britain and Ireland. To all Inspectors, sub-inspectors of the Royal Irish Constabulary:

“Arrest and detain Digby Groat, height five foot nine, stoutly built, complexion sallow, had small moustache but believed to have shaven. Speaks Spanish, French, Portuguese, and is a qualified surgeon and physician, believed to be travelling on the S.Y. Pealigo, No. XVM. This man is wanted on a charge of wilful murder and conspiracy; a reward of five thousand pounds will be paid by Messrs. Salter & Salter, Solicitors, of London, for his arrest and detention. Believe he has travelling with him, under compulsion, Dorothy Danton, age 22. Groat is a dangerous man and carries fire-arms.”

The little captain of the Pealigo took the thin cigar from his teeth and regarded the grey ash attentively, though he was also looking at the white-faced man by the operator’s side.

“So you see, senhor,” he said suavely, “I am in a most difficult position.”

“I thought you did not speak English,” said Digby, finding his voice at last.

The little captain smiled.

“I read enough English to understand a reward of five thousand pounds, senhor,” he said significantly. “And if I did not, my wireless operator speaks many languages, English included, and he would have explained to me, even if I had not been able to understand the message myself.”

Digby looked at him bleakly.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“That depends upon what you are going to do,” said the Brazilian. “I am no traitor to my salt, and I should like to serve you, but you readily understand that this would mean a terrible thing for me, if, knowing that you were wanted by the English police, I assisted you to make an escape? I am not a stickler for small things,” he shrugged his shoulders, “and Senhor Maxilla did much that I closed my eyes to. Women came into his calculations, but murder never.”

“I am not a murderer, I tell you,” stormed Digby vehemently, “and you are under my orders. Do you understand that?”

He jumped up and stood menacingly above the unperturbed Brazilian, and in his hand had appeared an ugly-looking weapon.

“You will carry out my instructions to the letter, or, by God, you’ll know all about it!”

But the captain of the Pealigo had returned to the contemplation of his cigar. He reminded Digby somewhat of Bronson, and the yellow-faced man shivered as at an unpleasant thought.

“It is not the first time I have been threatened with a revolver,” said the captain coolly. “Years ago when I was very young, such things might have frightened me, but to-day I am not young. I have a family in Brazil who are very expensive; my pay is small, otherwise I would not follow the sea and be every man’s dog to kick and bully as he wishes. If I had a hundred thousand pounds, senhor, I should settle down on a plantation which I have bought and be a happy and a silent man for the rest of my life.”

He emphasized “silent,” and Digby understood.

“Couldn’t you do that for a little less than a hundred thousand?” he asked.

“I have been thinking the matter out very carefully. We shipmen have plenty of time to think, and that is the conclusion that I have reached, that a hundred thousand pounds would make all the difference between a life of work and a life of ease.” He was silent for a moment and then went on. “That is why I hesitated about the reward. If the radio had said a hundred thousand pounds, senhor, I should have been tempted.”

Digby turned on him with a snarl.

“Talk straight, will you?” he said. “You want me to pay you a hundred thousand pounds, and that is the price for carrying me to safety; otherwise you will return to port and give me up.”

The captain shrugged his shoulders.

“I said nothing of the sort, senhor,” he said. “I merely mentioned a little private matter in which I am glad to see you take an interest. The senhor also wishes for a happy life in Brazil with the beautiful lady he brought on board, and the senhor is not a poor man, and if it is true that the beautiful lady is an heiress, he could be richer.”

The operator looked in. He was anxious to come back to his own cabin, but the captain, with a jerk of his head, sent him out again.

He dropped his voice a tone.

“Would it not be possible for me to go to the young lady and say: ‘Miss, you are in great danger, and I too am in danger of losing my liberty, what would you pay me to put a sentry outside your door; to place Senhor Digby Groat in irons, in the strong-room? Do you think she would say a hundred thousand pounds, or even a half of her fortune, senhor?”

Digby was silent.

The threat was real and definite. It was not camouflaged by any fine phrases; as plainly as the little Brazilian could state his demands, he had done so.

“Very good.” Digby got up from the edge of the table where he had sat, with downcast eyes, turning this and that and the other plan over in his mind. “I’ll pay you.”

“Wait, wait,” said the captain. “Because there is another alternative that I wish to put to you, senhor,” he said. “Suppose that I am her friend, or pretend to be, and offer her protection until we reach a port where she can be landed? Should we not both receive a share of the great reward?”

“I will not give her up,” said Digby between his teeth. “You can cut that idea out of your head, and also the notion about putting me in irons. By God, if I thought you meant it—” He glowered at the little man, and the captain smiled.

“Who means anything in this horrible climate?” he said lazily. “You will bring the money tomorrow to my cabin, perhaps—no, no, tonight,” he said thoughtfully.

“You can have it tomorrow.”

The captain shrugged his shoulders; he did not insist, and Digby was left alone with his thoughts.

There was still a hope; there were two. They could not prove that he shot Fuentes, and it would be a difficult matter to pick up the yacht if it followed the course that the captain had marked for it, and in the meantime there was Eunice. His lips twisted, and the colour came into his face. Eunice! He went along the deck and down the companion-way, but there was a man standing in the front of the door of the girl’s cabin, a broad-shouldered brown-faced man, who touched his cap as the owner appeared, but did not budge.

“Stand out of the way,” said Digby impatiently. “I want to go into that room.”

“It is not permitted,” said the sailor.

Digby stepped back a pace, crimson with anger.

“Who gave orders that I should not pass?”

“The capitano,” said the man.

Digby flew up the companion-ladder and went in search of the captain. He found him on the bridge.

“What is this?” he began, and the captain snapped something at him in Portuguese, and Digby, looking ahead, saw a white-fan-shaped light stealing along the sea.

“It is a warship, and she may be engaged in manoeuvres,” said the captain, “but she may also be looking for us.”

He gave an order, and suddenly all the lights on the ship were extinguished. The Pealigo swung round in a semicircle and headed back the way she had come.

“We can make a detour and get past her,” explained the captain, and Digby forgot the sentry at the door in the distress of this new danger.

Left and right wheeled the searchlight, but never once did it touch the Pealigo. It was searching for her, though they must have seen her lights, and now the big white ray was groping at the spot where the yacht had turned. It missed them by yards.

“Where are we going?” asked Digby fretfully.

“We are going back for ten miles, and then we’ll strike between the ship and Ireland, which is there.” He pointed to the horizon, where a splash of light trembled for a second and was gone.

“We are losing valuable time,” said Digby fretfully.

“It is better to lose time than to lose your liberty,” said the philosophical captain.

Digby clutched the rail and his heart turned to water, as the searchlight of the warship again swung round. But fortune was with them. It might, as the captain said, be only a ship carrying out searchlight practice, but on the other hand, in view of the wireless messages which had been received, it seemed certain that the cruiser had a special reason for its scrutiny.

It was not until they were out of the danger zone that Digby remembered the mission that had brought him to the bridge.

“What do you mean by putting a man on guard outside that girl’s door?” he asked.

The captain had gone to the deckhouse, and was bending over the table examining an Admiralty chart. He did not answer until Digby had repeated the question, then he looked up and straightened his back.

“The future of the lady is dependent, entirely, on the fulfilment of your promise, illustrious,” he said in the flamboyant terminology of his motherland.

“But I promised—”

“You have not performed.”

“Do you doubt my words?” stormed Digby.

“I do not doubt, but I do not understand,” said the captain. “If you will come to my cabin I will settle with you.”

Digby thought a while; his interest in Eunice had evaporated with the coming of this new danger, and there was no reason why he should settle that night. Suppose he was captured, the money would be wasted. It would be useless to him also, but this, in his parsimonious way, did not influence him.

He went down to his cabin, a smaller and less beautifully furnished one than that occupied by Eunice, and pulling an arm-chair to the neat little desk, he sat down to think matters over. And as the hours passed, his perspective shifted. Somehow, the danger seemed very remote, and Eunice was very near, and if any real danger came, why, there would be an end of all things, Eunice included, and his money would be of no more value to him than the spray which flapped against the closed porthole.

Beneath the bureau was a small, strong safe, and this he unlocked, taking out the broad money-belt which he had fastened about his waist before he began the journey. He emptied one bulging pocket, and laid a wad of bills upon the desk. They were gold bonds of ten thousand dollar denomination, and he counted forty, put the remainder back in the pocket from whence he had taken it, and locked the belt in the safe.

It was half-past five and the grey of the new day showed through the portholes. He thrust the money in his pocket and went out to talk to the captain.

He shivered in the chill wind of morning as he stepped out on the deck and made his way for’ard. The little Brazilian, a grotesque figure, wrapped in his overcoat and muffled to the chin, was standing moodily staring across the grey waste. Without a word Digby stepped up to him and thrust the bundle of notes into his hand. The Brazilian looked at the money, counted it mechanically, and put it into his pocket. “Your Excellency is munificent,” he said. “Now take your sentry from the door,” said Digby sharply.

“Wait here,” said the captain, and went below. He returned in a few minutes.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

SHE had heard the tap of her first visitor at one o’clock in the morning. It had come when Digby Groat was sitting in his cabin turning over the possibilities of misfortune which the future held, and she had thought it was he.

The handle of the door turned and it opened an inch; beyond that it could not go without a crash, for the chairs and tables that Eunice had piled against it. She watched with a stony face and despair in her heart, as the opening of the door increased.

“Please do not be afraid,” said a voice.

Then it was not Digby! She sprang to her feet. It might be some one worse, but that was impossible.

“Who is it?” she asked.

“It is I, the captain,” said a voice in laboured English.

“What is it you want?”

“I wish to speak to you, mademoiselle, but you must put away these things from behind the door, otherwise I will call two of my sailors, and it will be a simple matter to push them aside.”

Already he had prized open the door to the extent of two or three inches, and with a groan Eunice realized the futility of her barricade. She dragged the furniture aside and the little captain came in smiling, hat in hand, closing the door after him.

“Permit me, mademoiselle,” he said politely, and moved her aside while he replaced the furniture; then he opened the door and looked out, and Eunice saw that there was a tall sailor standing with his back to her, evidently on guard. What did this mean, she wondered? The captain did not leave her long in ignorance.

“Lady,” he said in an accent which it was almost impossible to reproduce, “I am a poor sailor-man who works at his hazardous calling for two hundred miserable milreis a month. But because I am poor, and of humble—” he hesitated and used the Portuguese word for origin—which she guessed at—“it does not mean that I am without a heart.” He struck his breast violently. “I have a repugnancio to hurting female women!”

She was wondering what was coming next: would he offer to sell his master at a price? If he did, she would gladly agree, but the new hope which surged up within her was dissipated by his next words.

“My friend Groat,” he said, “is my master. I must obey his orders, and if he says ‘Go to Callio,’ or to Rio de Janeiro, I must go.”

Her hopes sunk, but evidently he had something more to say.

“As the captain I must do as I am told,” he said, “but I cannot and will not see a female hurted. You understand?”

She nodded, and the spark of hope kindled afresh.

“I myself cannot be here all the time, nor can my inconquerable sailors, to see that you are not hurted, and it would look bad for me if you were hurted—very bad!”

Evidently the worthy captain was taking a very far-sighted view of the situation, and had hit upon a compromise which relieved him at least of his responsibility toward his master.

“If the young lady will take this, remembering that Jose Montigano was the good friend of hers, I shall be repaid.”

“This” was a silvery weapon. She took the weapon in her hand with a glad cry.

“Oh, thank you, thank you, captain,” she said, seizing his hand.

“Remember,” he raised a warning finger. “I cannot do more. I speak now as man to woman. Presently I speak as captain to owner. You understand the remarkable difference?”

He confused her a little, but she could guess what he meant.

He bowed and made his exit, but presently he returned.

“To put the chairs and tables against the floor is no use,” he said, shaking his head. “It is better—” He pointed significantly to the revolver, and with a broad grin closed the door behind him.

Digby Groat knew nothing of this visit: it satisfied him that the sentry had been withdrawn, and that now nothing stood between him and the woman whom, in his distorted, evil way, he loved, but her own frail strength. He tapped again. It pleased him to observe these threadbare conventions for the time being, yet when no answer came to his knock, he opened the door slowly and walked in.

Eunice was standing at the far end of the cabin; the silken curtains had been drawn aside, and the door leading to her sitting saloon was open. Her hands were behind her and she was fully dressed.

“My dear,” said Digby, in his most expansive manner, “why are you tiring your pretty eyes? You should have been in bed and asleep.”

“What do you want?” she demanded.

“What else could a man want, who had such a beautiful wife, but the pleasure of her conversation and companionship,” he said with an air of gaiety.

“Stand where you are,” she called sharply as he advanced, and the authority in her tone made him halt.

“Now, Eunice,” he said, shaking his head, “you are making a lot of trouble when trouble is foolish. You have only to be sensible, and there is nothing in the world that I will not give you.”

“There is nothing in the world that you have to give, except the money which you have stolen from me,” she said calmly. “Why do you talk of giving, when I am the giver, and there is nothing for you to take but my mercy?”

He stared at her, stricken dumb by the coolness at the moment of her most deadly danger, and then with a laugh he recovered his self-possession and strolled towards her, his dark eyes aflame.

“Stand where you are,” said Eunice again, and this time she had the means to enforce her command.

Digby could only stare at the muzzle of the pistol pointed towards his heart, and then he shrank back.

“Put that thing away!” he said harshly. “Damn you, put it away! You are not used to fire-arms, and it may explode.”

“It will explode,” said Eunice. Her voice was deep and intense, and all the resentment she had smothered poured forth in her words. “I tell you, Digby Groat, that I will shoot you like a dog, and glory in the act. Shoot you more mercilessly than you killed that poor Spaniard, and look upon your body with less horror than you showed.”

“Put it away, put it away! Where did you get it?” he cried. “For God’s sake, Eunice, don’t fool with that pistol; you don’t want to kill me, do you?”

“There are times when I want to kill you very badly,” she said, and lowered the point of the revolver at the sight of the man’s abject cowardice.

He wiped his forehead with a silk handkerchief, and she could see his knees trembling.

“Who gave you that pistol?” he demanded violently. “You didn’t have it when you left Kennett Hall, that I’ll swear. Where did you find it? In one of those drawers?” He looked at the bureau, one of the drawers of which was half open.

“Does it matter?” she asked. “Now, Mr. Groat, you will please go out of my cabin and leave me in peace.”

“I had no intention of hurting you,” he growled. He was still very pale. “There was no need for you to flourish your revolver so melodramatically. I only came in to say good night.”

“You might have come about six hours earlier,” she said. “Now go.”

“Listen to me, Eunice,” said Digby Groat; he edged forward, but her pistol covered him, and he jumped. “If you’re going to play the fool, I’ll go,” he said, and followed the action by the deed, slamming the door behind him.

She heard the outer door open and close, and leant against the brass column of the bed for support, for she was near to the end of her courage. She must sleep, she thought, but first she must secure the outer door. There was a lock on the lobby door; she had not noticed that before. She had hardly taken two steps through the cabin door before an arm was flung round her, she was pressed back, and a hand gripped the wrist which still carried the weapon. With a wrench he flung it to the floor, and in another moment she was in his arms.

“You thought I’d gone “—he lifted her, still struggling, and carried her back to the saloon. “I want to see you,” he breathed; “to see your face, your glorious eyes, that wonderful mouth of yours, Eunice.” He pressed his lips against hers; he smothered with kisses her cheeks, her neck, her eyes.

She felt herself slipping from consciousness; the very horror of his caresses froze and paralysed her will to struggle. She could only gaze at the eyes so close to hers, fascinated as by the glare of the deadly snake.

“You are mine now, mine, do you hear?” he murmured into her ear. “You will forget Jim Steele, forget everything except that I adore you,” and then he saw her wild gaze pass him to the door, and turned.

The little captain stood there, his hands on his hips, watching, his brown face a mask.

Digby released his hold of the girl, and turned on the sailor.

“What the hell are you doing here? Get out,” he almost screamed.

“There is an aeroplane looking for us,” said the captain. “We have just picked up her wireless.”

Digby’s jaw dropped. That possibility had not occurred to him.

“Who is she? What does the wireless say?”

“It is a message we picked up saying, ‘Nothing sighted. Am heading due south.’ It gave her position,” added the captain, “and if she is coming due south I think Mr. Steele will find us.”

Digby fell back a pace, his face blanched.

“Steele,” he gasped.

The captain nodded.

“That is the gentleman who signs the message. I think it would be advisable for you to come on deck.”

“I’ll come on deck when I want,” growled Digby. There was a devil in him now. He was at the end of his course, and he was not to be thwarted.

“Will the good gentleman come on deck?”

“I will come later. I have some business to attend to here.”

“You can attend to it on deck,” said the little captain calmly.

“Get out,” shouted Digby.

The captain’s hand did not seem to move; there was a shot, the deafening explosion of which filled the cabin, and a panel behind Digby’s head splintered into a thousand pieces.

He glared at the revolver in the Brazilian’s hand, unable to realize what had happened.

“I could have shot you just as easily,” said the Brazilian calmly, “but I preferred to send the little bullet near your ear. Will you come on deck, please?”

Digby Groat obeyed.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

WHITE and breathless he leant against the bulwark glowering at the Brazilian, who had come between him and the woman whose rum he had planned.

“Now,” he said, “you will tell me what you mean by this, you swine!”

“I will tell you many things that you will not like to hear,” said the captain.

A light dawned upon Digby.

“Did you give the girl that revolver?”

The Brazilian nodded.

“I desired to save you from yourself, my friend,” he said. “In an hour the gentleman Steele will be within sight of us; I can tell where he is within a few miles. Do you wish that he should come on board and discover that you have added something to murder that is worse than murder?”

“That is my business,” said Digby Groat, breathing so quickly that he felt he would suffocate unless the pent-up rage in him found some vent.

“And mine,” said the captain, tapping him on the chest. “I tell you, my fine fellow, that that is my business also, for I do not intend to live within an English gaol. It is too cold in England and I would not survive one winter. No, my fine fellow, there is only one thing to do. It is to run due west in the hope that we escape the observation of the airship man; if we do not, then we are—” He snapped his fingers.

“Do as you like,” said Digby, and turning abruptly walked down to his cabin.

He was beaten, and the end was near. He took from a drawer a small bottle of colourless liquid, and emptied its contents into a glass. This he placed in a rack conveniently to his hand. The effect would not be violent. One gulp, and he would pass to sleep and there the matter would end for him. That was a comforting thought to Digby Groat.

If they escaped—! His mind turned to Eunice. She could wait; perhaps they would dodge through all these guards that the police had put, and they would reach that land for which he yearned. He could not expect the captain, after receiving the wireless messages of warning, to take the risks. He was playing for safety, thought Digby, and did not wholly disapprove of the man’s attitude.

When they were on the high seas away from the ocean traffic, the little Brazilian would change his attitude, and then—Digby nodded. The captain was wise; it would have been madness on his part to force the issue so soon.

Eunice could not get away; they were moving in the same direction to a common destination, and there were weeks, hot and sunny weeks, when they could sit under the awning on this beautiful yacht and talk. He would be rational and drop that cave-man method of wooing. A week’s proximity and freedom from restraint might make all the difference in the world, if—There was a big if, he recognized. Steele would not rest until he had found him, but by that time Eunice might be a complacent partner.

He felt a little more cheerful, locked away the glass and its contents in a cupboard, and strolled up to the deck. He saw the ship now for the first time in daylight, and it was a model of what a yacht should be. The deck was snowy white; every piece of brass-work glittered, the coiled sheets looked to have been dipped in chalk, and under that identical awning great basket chairs awaited him invitingly.

He glanced round the horizon; there was no ship in sight. The sea sparkled in the rays of the sun, and over the white wake of the steamer lay a deep black pall of smoke, for the Pealigo was racing forward at twenty-two knots an hour. The captain, at any rate, was not playing him false. He was heading west, judged Digby.

Far away on the right was an irregular purple strip, the line of the Irish coast; the only traffic they would meet now, he considered, was the western-bound steamers on the New York route. But the only sign of a steamer was a blob of smoke on the far-off eastern horizon.

The chairs invited him, and he sat down and stretched his legs luxuriously.

Yes, this was a better plan, he thought, and as his mind turned again to Eunice, she appeared at the head of the companion-way. At first she did not see him, and walking to the rail, seemed to be breathing in the beauties of the morning.

How exquisite she looked! He did not remember seeing a woman who held herself as she did. The virginal purity of her face, the glory of her colouring, the svelte woman figure of her—they were worth waiting for, he told himself again.

She turned her head and saw him and made a movement as though she were going back to her cabin, but he beckoned to her, and to his surprise, she walked slowly toward him.

“Don’t get up,” she said coldly. “I can find a chair myself. I want to speak to you, Mr. Groat.”

“You want to speak to me,” he said in amazement, and she nodded.

“I have been thinking that perhaps I can induce you to turn this yacht about and land me in England.”

“Oh, you have, have you?” he said sharply. “What inducement can you offer other than your gracious self?”

“Money,” she answered. “I do not know by what miracle it has happened, but I believe I am an heiress, and worth”—she hesitated—“a great deal of money. If that is the case, Mr. Groat, you are poor.”

“I’m not exactly a pauper,” he said, apparently amused. “What are you offering me?”

“I’m offering you half my fortune to take me back to England,” she said.

“And what would you do with the other half of your fortune?” he mocked her. “Save me from the gallows? No, no, my young friend, I have committed myself too deeply to make your plan even feasible. I’m not going to bother you again, and I promise you I will wait until we have reached our destination before I ask you to share my lot. I appreciate your offer and I dare say it is an honest one,” he went on, “but I have gone too far literally and figuratively to turn back. You hate me now, but that feeling will change.”

“It will never change,” she said as she rose. “But I see that I am wasting my time with you,” and with a little nod, she would have gone had he not caught her hand and drawn her back.

“You love somebody else, I suppose?”

“That is an impertinence,” she said. “You have no right to question me.”

“I am not questioning you, I am merely making a statement which is beyond dispute. You love somebody else, and that somebody is Jim Steele.” He leant forward. “You can make up your mind for this, that sooner than give you to Jim Steele, I will kill you. Is that plain?”

“It is the kindest thing you have said,” she smiled contemptuously as she rose.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

A LITTLE smudge of smoke far away to the south, sent Jim Steele racing away on a fool’s errand, for the ship proved to be nothing more interesting than a fruit-boat which had ignored his wireless inquiry because the only man who operated the instrument was asleep in his bunk. Jim saw the character of the ship when he was within two miles of it, and banked over, cutting a diagonal course north-west.

Once or twice he glanced back at his “passenger,” but Inspector Maynard was thoroughly at home and apparently comfortable.

Jim was growing anxious. At the longest he could not keep in the air for more than four hours, and two of those precious hours were already gone. He must leave himself sufficient “juice” to make the land and this new zigzag must not occupy more than half an hour.

He had purposely taken the machine to a great height to enlarge his field of vision, and that meant a still further burden upon his limited supply of petrol.

He was almost despairing when he saw in the far distance a tiny white arrow of foam—the ship whose wake it was he could not see. His hand strayed to the key of his little wireless and he sent a message quivering through the ether. There was no response. He waited a minute and again the key clattered and clicked. Again a silence and he flashed an angry message. Then through his ear-pieces he heard a shrill wail of sound—the steamer was responding.

“What ship is that?”

He waited, never doubting that he would learn it was some small merchant vessel. There was a whine, and then:

“P-E-A-L-I-G-O,” was the reply.

Digby had gone forward to see what the men were doing who were swung over the side. He was delighted to discover that they were painting out the word Pealigo and were substituting Malaga. He went up to the captain in his most amiable mood.

“That is a good thought of yours,” he said, “changing the name, I mean.”

The captain nodded.

“By your orders, of course,” he said.

“Of course,” smiled Digby, “by my orders.”

All the time he was standing there chatting to the Brazilian he noticed that the man constantly turned his eyes to the north, scanning the sky.

“You don’t think that the aeroplane will come so far out, do you? How far are we from the coast?”

“We are a hundred and twelve miles from the English coast,” said the skipper, “and that isn’t any great distance for a seaplane.”

Digby with unusual joviality slapped him on the back.

“You are getting nervous,” he said. “He won’t come now.”

A man had come on to the bridge whom Digby recognized as the wireless operator. He handed a message to the captain, and he saw the captain’s face change.

“What is it?” he asked quickly.

Without a word the man handed the written slip.

“Ship heading south, send me your name and number.”

“Who is it from?” asked Digby, startled at this voice from nowhere.

The captain, supporting his telescope against a stanchion, scanned the northern skies.

“I see nothing,” he said with a frown. “Possibly it came from one of the land stations; there is no ship in sight.”

“Let us ask him who he is,” said Digby.

The three went back to the wireless room and the operator adjusted his ear-pieces. Presently he began writing, after a glance up at the captain, and Digby watched fascinated the movements of the pencil.

“Heave to. I am coming aboard you.”

The captain went out on the deck and again made a careful examination of the sky.

“I can’t understand it,” he said.

“The signal was close, senhor captain—it was less than three miles away,” broke in the operator.

The captain rubbed his nose.

“I had better stop,” he said.

“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” stormed Digby.

“You’ll go on until I tell you to stop.”

They returned to the bridge, and the captain stood with one hand on the telegraph, undecided.

And then right ahead of them, less than half a mile away, something fell into the water with a splash.

“What was that?” said Digby.

He was answered immediately. From the place where the splashing had occurred arose a great mass of billowing smoke which sped along the sea, presenting an impenetrable veil. Smoke was rising from the sea to their right, and the captain, shading his eyes, looked up. Directly over them it seemed was a silvery shape, so small as to be almost invisible if the sun had not caught the wing-tips and painted them silver.

“This, my friend,” said the captain, “is where many things happen.” He jerked over the telegraph to stop.

“What is it?” asked Digby.

“It was a smoke-bomb, and I prefer a smoke-bomb half a mile away to a real bomb on my beautiful ship,” said the captain.

For a moment Digby stared at him, and then with a scream of rage he sprang at the telegraph and thrust it over to full-ahead. Immediately he was seized from behind by two sailors, and the captain brought the telegraph back to its original position.

“You will signal to the senhor aviator, to whom you have already told the name of the ship, if you have obeyed my orders,” he said to the operator, “and say that I have put Mr. Digby Groat in irons!”

And five minutes later this statement was nearly true.

Down from the blue dropped that silvery dragon-fly, first sweeping round the stationary vessel in great circles until it settled like a bird upon the water close to the yacht’s side.

The captain had already lowered a boat, and whilst they were fixing the shackles on a man who was behaving like a raving madman in his cabin below, Jim Steele came lightly up the side of the ship and followed the captain down the companion-way.

Above the rumble of the yacht’s machinery Eunice had heard the faint buzz of the descending seaplane, but had been unable to distinguish it until the yacht stopped, then she heard it plainly enough and ran to the porthole, pulling aside the silk curtain.

Yes, there it was, a buzzing insect of a thing, that presently passed out of sight on the other side. What did it mean? What did it mean, she wondered. Was it—and then the door flew open and a man stood there. He was without collar or waistcoat, his hair was rumpled, his face bleeding, and one link of a steel handcuff was fastened about his wrist. It was Digby Groat, and his face was the face of a devil.

She shrank back against the bed as he came stealthily toward her, the light of madness in his eyes, and then somebody else came in, and he swung round to meet the cold level scrutiny of Jim Steele.

With a yell like a wild beast, Digby sprang at the man he hated, but the whirling steel of the manacle upon his hand never struck home. Twice Jim hit him, and he fell an inert heap on the ground. In another second Eunice was in her lover’s arms, sobbing her joy upon the breast of his leather jacket.

THE END