The man addressed listened in silent attention, and showed no sign of any surprise. As soon as Vickers had finished he turned, hurried down a stairway, remained below for a few minutes, and came up again.
"Will you kindly step this way, Miss Greyle and gentlemen?" he said politely. "You must remember that I am only a servant. If you will come down—"
He led them down the stairs, along a thickly-carpeted passage, and opened the door of a lighted saloon. All unthinking, the three stepped in—to hear the door closed and locked behind them.
Vickers sprang back at that door as the sharp click of the turning key caught his ear, and Copplestone, preceding him and following Audrey, who had advanced fearlessly into the cabin, pulled himself up with a sudden, sickening sense of treachery. The two young men looked at each other, and a dead silence fell on them and the girl. Then Vickers laid his hand on the door and shook it.
"Locked in!" he muttered with a queer glance at his companions. "What does that mean?"
"Nothing good!" growled Copplestone who was secretly cursing his own folly in allowing Audrey to leave the quay. "We're trapped!—that's what it means. Why we're trapped isn't a question that matters very much under the circumstances—the serious thing is that we certainly are trapped."
Vickers turned to Audrey.
"My fault!" he said contritely. "All my fault! But I meant it for the best—it was the thing to do—and who on earth could have foreseen this. Look here!—we've got to think pretty quick, Copplestone, that captain, now? Has he done this on his own hook, or—is there somebody on board who's at the top of things?"
"I don't see any good in thinking quick, or asking one's self questions," replied Copplestone. "We're locked in here. We've got Miss Greyle into this mess—and her mother will be anxious and alarmed. I wish we'd let this confounded yacht go where it liked before ever we'd—"
"Don't!" broke in Audrey. "That's no good. Mr. Vickers certainly did what he felt to be best—and who could foresee this? And I'm not afraid—and as for my mother, if we don't return very soon, why, she knows where we are and there are police in Scarhaven, and—"
"How long are we going to be where we are?" asked Copplestone, grimly."The thing's moving!"
There was no doubt of that very pertinent fact. Somewhere beneath them, machinery began to work; above them there was hurry and scurry as ropes and stays were thrown off. But so beautifully built was that yacht, and so almost sound-proof the luxurious cabin in which they were prisoners, that little of the noise of departure came to them. However, there was no mistaking the increasing throb of the engines nor the fact that the vessel was moving, and Vickers suddenly sprang on a lounge seat and moved away a silken screen which curtained a port-hole window.
"There's no doubt of that!" he exclaimed.
"We're going through the outer harbour—we've passed the light at the end of the quay. What do these people mean by carrying us out to sea? Copplestone!—with all submission to you—whether it's relevant or not, I wish we knew more of that captain chap!"
"I know him," remarked Audrey. "I have been on this yacht before. His name is Andrius. He's an American—or American-Norwegian, or something like that."
"And the crew?" asked Vickers. "Are they Scarhaven men?"
"No," replied Audrey. "There isn't a Scarhaven man amongst them. My cousin—I mean—you know whom I mean—bought this yacht just as it stood, from an American millionaire early this spring, and he took over the captain, crew, and everything."
"So—we're in the hands of strangers!" exclaimed Vickers, while Copplestone dug his hands into his pockets and began to stamp about. "I wish I'd known all that before we came on board."
"But what harm can they do us?" said Audrey, incredulous of danger. "You don't suppose they'll want to murder us, surely! My own belief is that we never should have been locked up here if you hadn't let them know how much we know, Mr. Vickers."
"Let them—I don't understand," said Vickers, turning a puzzled glance on her.
"Why," replied Audrey with a laugh which convinced both men of her fearlessness, "you let the captain see that we know a great deal and he thereupon ran downstairs—presumably to tell somebody of what you said. And—here's the result!"
"You think, then—" suggested Vickers. "You think that—"
"I think the somebody—whoever he is—wants to know exactly how much we do know," answered Audrey with another laugh. "And so we're being carried off to be cross-examined—at somebody's leisure. Let's hope they won't use thumb-screws and that sort of thing. And anyway," she continued, looking from one to the other, "hadn't we better make the best of it? We're going out to sea, that's certain—here's the bar!"
A sudden lifting of the thickly-carpeted floor, a dip to the left, another to the right, a plunge forward, a drop back, then a settling down to a steady persistent roll, showed her companions that Audrey was right—the yacht was crossing the bar which lay at the mouth of Scarhaven Bay. Outside that lay the North Sea, and Copplestone suddenly wondered which course the vessel was going to take, north, east, or south. But before he could put his thoughts into words, the door was suddenly unlocked, and Captain Andrius, suave, polite, deprecating, walked into the cabin.
"A thousands pardons—and two words of explanation!" he exclaimed, as he executed a deep bow to his lady prisoner. "First—Miss Greyle, I have sent a message to your mother that you are quite safe and will join her in due course. Second—this is merely a temporary detention—you shall all be landed—all in good time."
Vickers as a legal man, assumed his most professional air.
"Do you know what you are rendering yourself liable to, sir, by detaining us at all?" he demanded. "An action—"
Captain Andrius bowed again; again assumed his deprecating smile. He waved the two men to seats and himself took a chair with his back to the door by which he entered.
"My dear sir!" he said courteously. "You forget that I am but a servant. I am under orders. However, I give my word that no harm shall come to you, that you shall be treated with every polite attention, and that you shall be landed."
"When—and where?" asked Vickers.
"Tomorrow, certainly," replied Andrius. "As to where, I cannot exactly say. But—where you will be in touch with—shall we say civilization?"
He showed a set of fine white teeth in such a curious fashion as he spoke the last word that Copplestone and Vickers instinctively glanced at each other, with a mutual instinct of distrust.
"Won't do!" said Vickers. "I insist that you put about and go intoScarhaven again."
Andrius spread out his open palms and shook his head "Impossible!" he answered. "We are alreadyen voyage. Time presses. Be placable—tomorrow you shall be released."
Vickers was about to answer this appeal with an angry refusal to be either placable or tractable, but he suddenly stopped the words which rose to his tongue. There was something in all this—some mystery, some queer game, and it might be worth while to find it out.
"Where are you taking this yacht?" he demanded brusquely. "Come, now!"
"I am under—orders," said Andrius, with another smile.
"Whose orders?" persisted Vickers. "Look here—it's no use trying to burke facts. Who's on board this vessel? You know what I mean. Is the man who calls himself Squire of Scarhaven here?"
Andrius shook his head quietly and gave his questioner a shrewd glance.
"Mr. Vickers," he said meaningly, "I know you! You are a lawyer—though a young one. Lawyers are guarded in their speech. Now—we are alone—we four. No one can hear anything we say. Tell me—is that right what you said to me on deck, that the man who has called himself Marston Greyle is not so at all?"
"Absolutely right," replied Vickers.
"An impostor?" demanded Andrius.
"He is!"
"And never had any right to—anything?"
"No right whatever!"
"Then," said Andrius, with a polite inclination of his head and shoulders to Audrey, "the truth is that everything of the Scarhaven property belongs to this lady?"
"Everything!" exclaimed Vickers. "Land, houses, furniture, valuables—everything. All the property which you have on this yacht—pictures, china, silver, books, objects of art, as I am instructed, removed from the house—are Miss Greyle's sole property. Once more I warn you of what you are doing, and I demand that you immediately return to Scarhaven. This very yacht belongs to Miss Greyle!"
Andrius nodded, looked fixedly at the young solicitor for a moment, and then rose.
"I am obliged to you," he said. "That, of course, is your claim. But—the other one, eh? It seems to me there might be something to be said for that, you know? So, all I can do is to renew my assurance of polite attention, offer you our best accommodation—which is luxurious—and promise to land you—somewhere—tomorrow. Miss Greyle, we have two women servants on board—I shall send them to you at once and they will attend to you—please consider them your own. You, gentlemen, will perhaps join me in my quarters?—I have two spare cabins close to my own which are at your service."
Copplestone and Vickers looked at each other and at Audrey—undecided and vaguely suspicious. But Audrey was evidently neither alarmed nor uneasy—she nodded a ready assent to the Captain's proposal.
"Thank you, Captain Andrius," she said coolly. "I know the two women. You may send one of them. Do what he suggests," she murmured, turning to Copplestone, who had moved close to her, "I'm not one scrap afraid of anything—and it's only until tomorrow. He'll land us—I'm sure of it."
There was nothing for it, then, but to follow Andrius to his own comfortable quarters. There, utterly ignoring the strange circumstances under which they met, he played the part of host with genuine desire to make his guests feel at ease, and when he showed them to their berths, a little later, he emphasized his assurance of their absolute safety and liberty.
"You see, gentlemen, your movements are untrammelled," he said. "You can go in and out of your quarters as you like. You can go where you like on the yacht tomorrow morning. There is no restriction on you. Sleep well—and tomorrow you are all free again, eh?"
Copplestone got a word or two with Vickers—alone.
"What do you think?" he muttered. "Shall you sleep?"
"My impression—for I know what you're thinking about," said Vickers, "is that Miss Greyle's as safe as if she were in her mother's house! She's no fear, herself, anyway. There's some mystery, somewhere, and I can't make this Andrius man out at all, but I believe all's right as regards personal safety. There's Miss Greyle's cabin, anyhow, right opposite ours—and I can keep an eye and an ear open even when I'm asleep!"
But in spite of these assurances, Copplestone slept little. He was up, dressed, and on deck by sunrise, staring around him in a fresh autumn morning to get some notion of the yacht's whereabouts, and he had just managed to make out a mere filmy line of land far to the westward when Audrey appeared at his elbow. There was no one of any importance near them and Copplestone impulsively seized her hands.
"I've scarcely slept!" he blurted out, gazing intently at her."Couldn't! Blaming myself for letting you get into this confounded mess!You're all right?"
Audrey responded a little to the pressure of his hands before she disengaged her own.
"It wasn't your fault," she said. "It's nobody's fault. Don't blame Mr. Vickers—he couldn't foresee this. Yes, I'm all right—and I slept like a top. What's the use of worrying? Do you know," she went on, lowering her voice and drawing nearer to him, "I believe something's going to come of all this—something that'll clear matters up once and for all."
"Why?" asked Copplestone, wonderingly. "What makes you think that?"
"Don't know—instinct, intuitiveness, perhaps," she answered. "Besides—I'm dead certain we're not the only people—I don't mean crew and Captain—aboard thePike. I believe there's somebody else. There's some mystery, anyway. Keep that to yourself," she said as Andrius and Vickers appeared from below. "Don't show any sign—wait to see how things turn out."
She turned away from him to greet the other two as unconcernedly as if there were nothing unusual in the situation, and Copplestone marvelled at her coolness. He himself, not so well equipped with patience, was feverishly anxious to know how things would turn out, and when. But the day went by and nothing happened, except that Captain Andrius was very polite to his guests and that the yacht, a particularly fast sailer, continued to make headway through the grey seas, sometimes in bare sight of land and sometimes out of it. To one or two inquiries as to the fulfilment of his promise Andrius made no more answer than a reassuring nod; once when Vickers pressed him, he replied curtly that the day was not yet over. Vickers drew Copplestone aside on hearing that.
"Look here!" he said. "I've been reckoning things up as near as I can. I make out that we've been running due north, or north-east ever since we left Scarhaven last night. I reckon, too, that this vessel makes quite twenty-two or three, knots an hour. We must be off the extreme north-east coast of Scotland. And night's coming on!"
"There are ports there that he can put into," said Copplestone. "The thing is—will he keep his promise? Remember!—he must know very well that if we once land anywhere within reach of a telegraph office, we can wire particulars about him to every port in the world if we like—and he's got to go somewhere, eventually, you know."
Vickers shook his head as if this were a problem he would give up. It was beyond him, he said, to even guess at what Andrius was after, or what was going to happen. And nothing did happen until, as the three prisoners sat at dinner with their polite gaoler, thePikecame to a sudden stop and hung gently on a quiet sea. Andrius looked up and smiled.
"A pleasant night for your landing," he remarked. "Don't hurry—but there will be a boat ready for you as soon as dinner is over."
"And where are we?" asked Vickers.
"That, my dear sir, you will see when you land." replied Andrius. "You will, at any rate, be quite comfortable for the night, and in the morning, I think, you will be able to journey—wherever you wish to go to."
There was something in the smile which accompanied the last words which made Copplestone uneasy. But the prospect of regaining their liberty was too good—he kept his own counsel. And half-an-hour later, he, Audrey and Vickers, stood on deck, looking down on a boat alongside, in which were two or three of the crew and a man holding a lanthorn. In front was the dark sea, and ahead a darker mass which they took to be land.
"You won't tell us what this place is?" said Vickers as he was about to follow the others into the boat. "It's on the mainland, of course?"
"The morning light, my good sir, will show you everything," replied Andrius. "Be content that I have kept my promise—you have come off luckily," he added with a significant look.
Vickers felt a strange sense of alarm as the boat left the yacht. He noticed two or three suspicious circumstances. As soon as they got away, he saw that all the yacht's lights had been or were being darkened or entirely obscured; at a dozen boat lengths they could see her no more. Then a boat, swiftly pulled, passed them in the darkness, evidently coming from the shore to which they were being taken: it, too, carried no light. Nor were there any lights on the shore itself; all there was in utter blackness. They were on the shingle within a quarter of an hour; within a minute or two the yachtsmen had helped all three on to the beach, had carried up certain boxes and packages which had been placed in the boat, had set down the lighted lanthorn, jumped into the boat again and vanished in the darkness. And in the silence, broken only by the drip of water from the retreating oars, and by the scarcely-noticed ripple of the waves, Audrey voiced exactly what her two companions felt.
"Andrius has kept his word—and cheated us! We're stranded!"
From somewhere out of the darkness came a groan—deep and heartfelt, as if in entire agreement with Audrey's declaration. That it proceeded from a human being was evident enough, and Vickers hastily snatched up the lanthorn and strode in the direction from which it came. And there, seated on the shingle, his whole attitude one of utter dejection and misery, the three castaways found a sharer of their sorrows—Peter Chatfield!
To each of these three young people this was the most surprising moment which life had yet afforded. It was an astonishing thing to find a fellow mortal there at all, but to find that mortal was the Scarhaven estate agent was literally short of marvellous. What was also astounding was to see Chatfield's only too evident distress. Swathed in a heavy, old-fashioned ulster, with a plaid shawl round his shoulders and a deerstalker hat tied over head and ears with a bandanna handkerchief he sat on the beach nursing his knees, slightly rocking his fleshy figure to and fro and moaning softly with the regularity of a minute bell. His eyes were fixed on the dark expanse of waters at his feet; his lips, when he was not moaning, worked incessantly; as he rocked his body he beat his toes on the shingle. Clearly, Chatfield was in a bad way, mentally. That he was not so badly off materially was made evident by the presence of a half-open kit bag which obviously contained food and a bottle of spirits.
For any notice that he took of them, Audrey, Vickers, and Copplestone might have been no more than the pebbles on which they stood. In spite of the fact that Vickers shone the light on his fat face, and that three inquisitive pairs of eyes were trained on it, Chatfield continued to stare moodily and disgustedly out to sea and to take no notice of his gratuitous company. And so utterly extraordinary was his behaviour and attitude that Audrey suddenly and almost involuntarily stepped forward and laid a hand on his shoulder.
"Mr. Chatfield!" she exclaimed. "What 's the matter? Are you ill?"
The emphasis which she gave to the last word roused some quality of Chatfield's subtle intellect. He flashed a swift look at his questioner—a look of mingled contempt and derision, spiced with a dash of sneering humour. And he found his tongue.
"Ill!" he snorted. "Ill! She asks if I'm ill—me, a respectable man what's maltreated and robbed before his own eyes by them as ought to fall in humble gratitude at his feet! Ill!—aye, ill with something that's worse nor any bodily aches and pains—let me tell you that! But not done for, neither!"
"He's all right," said Copplestone. "That's a flash of his old spirit. You're all right, Chatfield, aren't you? And who's robbed and maltreated you—and how and when—especially when—did you come here?"
Chatfield looked up at his old assailant with a glare of dislike.
"You keep your tongue to yourself, young feller!" he growled. "I shouldn't never ha' been here at all if it hadn't been for the likes of you—a pokin' your nose where it isn't wanted. It's 'cause o' you three comin' aboard o' that there yacht last night as I am here—a castaway!"
"Well, we're castaways, too, Mr. Chatfield," said Audrey. "And we can't help believing that it's all your naughty conduct that's made us so. Why don't you tell the truth?"
Chatfield uttered a few grumpy and inarticulate sounds.
"It'll be a bad day for more than one when I do that—as I will," he muttered presently. "Oh aye, I 'll tell the truth—when it suits me! But I'll be out o' this first."
"You'll never get out of this first or last, until you tell us how you got in," said Vickers, assuming a threatening tone. "You'd better tell us all about it, you know. Come now!—you know me and my firm."
Chatfield laughed grimly and shook his much-swathed head.
"I ought to," he said. "I've given 'em more than one nice job and said naught about their bills o' costs, neither, my lad. You keep a civil tongue in your mouth—I ain't done for yet, noways! You let me get off this here place, wherever it is, and within touch of a telegraph office, and I'll make somebody suffer!"
"Andrius, of course," said Copplestone. "Come now, he put you ashore before he sent us off, didn't he? Why don't you own up?"
"Never you mind, young feller," retorted Chatfield. "I was feeling very cast down, but I'm better. I've something that'll keep me going—revenge! I'll show 'em, once I'm off this place—I will so!"
"Look here, Chatfield," said Vickers. "Do you know where this place is?What is it? Is it on the mainland, or is it an island, or where are we?It's all very well talking about getting off, but when and how are we toget off? Why don't you be sensible and tell us what you know?"
The estate agent arose slowly and ponderously, drawing his shawl about him. He looked out seawards. In that black waste the steady beat of the yacht's propellers could be clearly heard, but not a gleam of light came from her, and it was impossible to decide in which direction she was going. And Chatfield suddenly shook his fist at the throbbing sound which came in regular pulsations through the night.
"Never mind!" he said sneeringly. "We aren't at the North Pole neither—I ain't a seafaring man, but I've a good idea of where we are! And perhaps there won't be naught to take me off when it's daylight, and perhaps there won't be no telegraphs near at hand, nor within a hundred miles, and perhaps there ain't such a blessed person as that there Marconi and his wireless in the world—oh, no! Just you wait, my fine fellers—that's all!"
"He's not addressing us, Vickers," said Copplestone. "You're decidedly better, Chatfield—you're quite better. The notion of revenge and of circumvention has come to you like balm. But you'd a lot better tell us who you're referring to, and why you were put ashore. Listen, Chatfield!—there's property of your own on that yacht, eh? That it? Come, now?"
Chatfield gave his questioner a look of indignant scorn. He stooped for the kit-bag, picked it up, and turned away.
"I don't want to have naught to do with you," he remarked over his shoulder. "You keep yourselves to yourselves, and I'll keep myself to myself. If it hadn't been for what you blabbed out last night, them ungrateful devils 'ud never have had such ideas put into their heads!"
As if he knew his way, Chatfield plodded heavily up the beach and was lost in the darkness, and the three left behind stood helplessly staring at each other. For a long time there was silence, broken only by the agent's heavy tread on the shingle—at last Vickers spoke.
"I think I can see through all this," he said. "Chatfield's cryptic utterances were somewhat suggestive. 'Robbed'—'maltreated'—'them as ought to have fallen in humble gratitude at his feet'—'vengeance'— 'revenge'—'Marconi telegrams'—'ungrateful devils'—ah, I see it! Chatfield had associates on thePike—probably the impostor himself and Andrius—probably, too, he had property of his own, as you suggested to him, Copplestone. The whole gang was doubtless off with their loot to far quarters of the globe. Very good—the other members have shelved Chatfield. They've done with him. But—not if he knows it! That man will hunt thePikeand her people—whoever they are—relentlessly when he gets off this."
"I wish we knew what it is that we're on!" said Copplestone.
"Impossible till daybreak," replied Vickers. "But I've an idea—this is probably one of the seventy-odd islands of the Orkneys: I've sailed round here before. If I'm right, it's most likely one of the outlying and uninhabited ones. Andrius—or his controlling power—has dropped us—and Chatfield—here, knowing that we may have to spend a few days on this island before we succeed in getting off. Those few days will mean a great deal to thePike. She can be run into some safe harbourage on this coast, given a new coat of paint and a new name, and be off before we can do anything to stop her. I allow Chatfield to be right in this—that my perhaps too hasty declaration to Andrius revealed to that gentleman how he could make off with other people's property."
"Nothing will make me believe that Andrius is the solely responsible person for this last development," said Copplestone, moodily. "There were other people on board—cleverly concealed. And what are we going to do?"
Audrey had stepped away from the circle of light made by the lanthorn and was gazing steadily in the direction which Chatfield had taken.
"Those are cliffs, surely," she said presently. "Hadn't we better go up the beach and see if we can't find some shelter until morning? Fortunately we're all warmly clad, and Andrius was considerate enough to throw rugs and things into the boat, as well as provisions. Come along!—after all, we're not so badly off. And we have the satisfaction of knowing that we can keep Chatfield under observation. Remember that!"
But in the morning, when the first gleam of light came across the sea, and Vickers, leaving his companions to prepare some breakfast from the store of provisions which had been sent ashore with them, set out to make a first examination of their surroundings, the agent was not to be seen. What was to be seen was a breach of rock, sand, shingle, not a mile in length, lying at the foot of high cliffs, and on the grey sea in front not a sign of a sail, nor a wisp of smoke from a passing steamer. The apparent solitude and isolation of the place was as profound as the silence which overhung everything.
Vickers made his way up the cliffs to their highest point and from its summit took a leisurely view of his surroundings. He saw at once that they were on an island, and that it was but one of many which lay spread out over the sea towards the north and the west. It was a wedge-shaped island this, and the cliffs on which he stood and the beach beneath formed the widest side of it; from thence its lines drew away to a point in the distance which he judged to be two miles off. Between him and that point lay a sloping expanse of rough land, never cultivated since creation, whereon there were vast masses of rock and boulder but no sign of human life. No curling column of smoke went up from hut or cottage; his ears caught neither the bleating of sheep nor the cry of shepherd—all was still as only such places can be still. Nor could he perceive any signs of life on the adjacent islands—which, to be sure, were not very near. From the sea mists which wrapped one of them he saw projecting the cap of a mountainous hill—that hill he recognized as being on one of the principal islands of the group, and he then knew that he and his companions had been set down on one of the outlying islands which, from its position, was not in the immediate way of passing vessels nor likely to be visited by fishermen.
He was turning away from the top of the cliff after a long and careful inspection, when he caught sight of a man's figure crossing the rocky slope between him and this far-off point. That, he said to himself, was Chatfield. Did Chatfield know of any place at that point visited by fishing craft from the other islands? Had Chatfield ever been in the Orkneys before? Was there any method in his wanderings? Or was he, too, merely examining his surroundings—considering which was the likeliest part of the island from which to attract attention? In the midst of these speculation a sudden resolution came to him—one or other of the three must keep an eye on Chatfield. Night or day, Chatfield must be watched. And having already seen that Copplestone and Audrey had an unmistakable liking for each other's society and would certainly not object to being left together, he determined to watch Chatfield himself. Hurrying down the cliffs, he hastily explained the situation to his companions, took some food in his hands, and set out to follow the agent wherever he went.
Half-an-hour later, when Vickers regained the top of the cliff and once more looked across the island towards the far-off point, the figure which he had previously seen making for it had turned back, and was plodding steadily across the coarse grass and rock-strewn moorland in his own direction. Chatfield had evidently taken a bird's eye view of the situation from the vantage point of the slope and had come to the conclusion that the higher part of the island was the most likely point from which to attract attention. He came steadily forward, a big, lumbering figure in the light mist, and Vickers as he went on to meet him eyed him with a lively curiosity, wondering what secrets lay carefully locked up in the man's heart and what happened on thePikethat made its captain or its owner bundle Chatfield out of it like a box of bad goods for which there was no more use. And as he speculated, they met, and Vickers saw at once that the old fellow's mood had changed during the night. An atmosphere of smug oiliness sat upon Chatfield in the freshness of the morning, and he greeted the young solicitor in tones which were suggestive of a chastened spirit.
"Morning, Mr. Vickers," he said. "A sweetly pretty spot it is that we find ourselves in, sir—nevertheless, one's affairs sometimes makes us long to quit the side of beauty, however much we would tarry by it! In plain words, Mr. Vickers, I want to get out o' this. And I've been looking round, and my opinion is that the best thing we can do is to start as big a fire as we can find stuff for on yon bluff and keep a-feeding on it. In the meantime, while you're considering of that, I'll burn something of my own—I'm weary."
He dropped down on a convenient boulder of limestone, settled his big frame comfortably, and producing a pipe and a tobacco pouch, proceeded to smoke. Vickers himself took another boulder and looked inquisitively at his strange companion. He felt sure that Chatfield was up to something.
"You say 'we' now," he remarked suddenly. "Last night you said you didn't want to have anything to do with us. We were to keep to ourselves, and—"
"Well, well, Mr. Vickers," broke in Chatfield. "One says things at one time that one wouldn't say at another, you know. Facts is facts, sir, and Providence has made us companions in distress. I've naught against you—nor against the girl—as for t'other young man, he's of a interfering nature—but I forgive him—he's young. I don't bear no ill will—things being as they are. I've had time to reflect since last night—and I don't see no reason why Miss Greyle and me shouldn't come to terms—through you."
Vickers lighted his own pipe, and took some time over it.
"What are you after, Chatfield?" he asked at length. "Something, of course. You say you want to come to terms with Miss Greyle. That, of course, is because you know very well that Miss Greyle is the legal owner of Scarhaven, and that—"
Chatfield waved his pipe.
"I don't!" he answered, with what seemed genuine eagerness. "I don't know naught of the sort. I tell you, Mr. Vickers, I donotknow that the man what we've known as the Squire of Scarhaven for a year gone by isnotthe rightful Squire—I do not! Fact, sir! But"—he lowered his voice, and his sly eyes became slyer and craftier—"but I won't deny that during this last week or two I may have had my suspicions aroused, that there was something wrong—I don't deny that, Mr. Vickers."
Vickers heard this with amazement. Young as he was, he had had various dealings with Peter Chatfield, and he had an idea that he knew something of him, subtle old fellow though he was, and he believed that Chatfield was now speaking the truth. But, in that case, what of Copplestone's revelation about the Falmouth and Bristol affair and the dead man? He thought rapidly, and then determined to take a strong line.
"Chatfield!" he said. "You're trying to bluff me. It won't do. Things are known. I know 'em! I'll be candid with you—the time's come for that. I'll tell you what I know—it'll all have to come out. You know very well that the real Marston Greyle's dead. You were with him when he died. What's more, you buried him at Bristol under the name of Mark Grey. Hang it all, man, what's the use of lying about it?—you know that's all true!"
He was watching Chatfield's big face keenly, and he was astonished to see that his dramatic impeachment produced no more effect than a slightly superior smile. Instead of being floored, Chatfield was distinctly unimpressed.
"Aye!" he said, reflectively. "Aye, I expected to hear that. That's Copplestone's work, of course—I knew he was some sort of detective as soon as I got speech with him. His work and that there Sir Cresswell Oliver's as is making a mountain out of a molehill about his brother, who, of course, broke his neck quite accidental, poor man, and of that London lawyer—Petherton. Aye—aye—but all the same, Mr. Vickers, it don't alter matters—no-how!"
"Good heavens, man, what do you mean?" exclaimed Vickers, who was becoming more and more mystified. "Do you mean to tell me—come, come, Chatfield, I'm not a fool! Why—Copplestone has found it all out—there's no need to keep it secret, now. You were with Marston Greyle when he died—you registered his death as Marston Greyle—and—"
Chatfield laughed softly and gave his companion a swift glance out of one corner of his right eye.
"And put another name on a bit of a tombstone—six months afterwards, what?" he said quietly. "Mr. Vickers, when you're as old as I am, you'll know that this here world is as full o' puzzles as yon sea's full o'fish!"
Vickers could only stare at his companion in speechless silence after that. He felt that there was some mystery about which Chatfield evidently knew a great deal while he knew nothing. The old fellow's coolness, his ready acceptance of the Bristol facts, his almost contemptuous brushing aside of them, reduced Vickers to a feeling of helplessness. And Chatfield saw it, and laughed, and drawing a pocket-flask out of his garments, helped himself to a tot of spirits—after which he good-naturedly offered like refreshment to Vickers. But Vickers shook his head.
"No, thanks," he said. He continued to stare at Chatfield much as he might have, stared at the Sphinx if she had been present—and in the end he could only think of one word. "Well?" he asked lamely. "Well?"
"As to what, now?" inquired Chatfield with a sly smile.
"About what you said," replied Vickers. "Miss Greyle, you know. I'm about thoroughly tied up with all this. You evidently know a lot. Of course you won't tell! You're devilish deep, Chatfield. But, between you and me—what do you mean when you say that you don't see why you and Miss Greyle shouldn't come to terms?"
"Didn't I say that during this last week or two I'd had my suspicions about the Squire?" answered Chatfield. "I did. I have had them suspicions—got 'em stronger than ever since last night. So—what I say is this. If things should turn out that Miss Greyle's the rightful owner of Scarhaven, and if I help her to establish her claim, and if I help, too, to recover them valuables that are on thePike—there's a good sixty to eighty thousand pounds worth of stuff, silver, china, paintings, books, tapestry, on that there craft, Mr. Vickers!—if, I say, I do all that, what will Miss Greyle give me? That's it—in a plain way of speaking."
"I thought it was," said Vickers dryly. "Of course! Very well—you'd better come and talk to Miss Greyle. Come on—now!"
Copplestone and Audrey, having made a breakfast from the box of provisions which Andrius had been good enough to send ashore with them, had climbed to the head of the cliff after Vickers, and they were presently astonished beyond measure to see him returning with Chatfield under outward signs which suggested amity if not friendship. They paused by a convenient nook in the rocks and silently awaited the approach of these two strangely assorted companions. Vickers, coming near, gave them a queer and a knowing look.
"Mr. Chatfield," he said gravely, "has had the night in which to reflect. Mr. Chatfield desires peaceable relations. Mr. Chatfield doesn't see—now, having reflected—why he and Miss Greyle shouldn't be on good terms. Mr. Chatfield desires to discuss these terms. Is that right, Chatfield?"
"Quite right, sir," assented the agent. He had been regarding the couple who faced him benevolently and indulgently, and he now raised his hat to them. "Servant, ma'am," he said with a bow to Audrey. "Servant, sir," he continued, with another bow to Copplestone. "Ah—it's far better to be at peace one with another than to let misunderstandings exist for ever. Mr. Copplestone, sir, you and me's had words in times past—I brush 'em away, sir, like that there—the memory's departed! I desire naught but better feelings. Happen Mr. Vickers'll repeat what's passed between him and me."
Copplestone stood rooted to the spot with amazement while Vickers hastily epitomized the recent conversation; his mouth opened and his speech failed him. But Audrey laughed and looked at Vickers as if Chatfield were a new sort of entertainment.
"What do you say to this, Mr. Vickers?" she asked.
"Well, if you want to know," replied Vickers, "I believe Chatfield when he says that he doesnotknow that the Squire isnotthe Squire. May seem strange, but I do! As a solicitor, I do."
"Great Scott!" exclaimed Copplestone, finding his tongue."You—believe that!"
"I've said so," retorted Vickers.
"Thank you, sir," said Chatfield. "I'm obliged to you. Mr. Copplestone, sir, doesn't yet understand that there's a deal of conundrum in life. He'll know better—some day. He'll know, too, that the poet spoke truthful when he said that things isn't what they seem."
Copplestone turned angrily on Vickers.
"Is this a farce?" he demanded. "Good heavens, man! you know what I told you!"
"Mr. Chatfield has a version," answered Vickers. "Why not hear it?"
"On terms, Mr. Vickers," remarked Chatfield. "On terms, sir."
"What terms?" asked Audrey. "To Mr. Chatfield's personal advantage, of course."
Chatfield, who was still the most unconcerned of the group, seated himself on the rocks and looked at his audience.
"I've said to Mr. Vickers here that if I help Miss Greyle to the estate, I ought to be rewarded—handsome," he said. "Mind you, I don't know that I can, for as I say, I do not know, as a matter of strict fact, that this man as we've called the Squire, isn't the Squire. But recent events—very recent events!—has made me suspicious that he isn't, and happen I can do a good bit—a very good bit—to turning him out. Now, if I help in that there work, will Miss Greyle continue me in my post of estate agent at Scarhaven?"
"Not for any longer than it will take to turn you out of it, Mr. Chatfield," replied Audrey with an energy and promptitude which surprised her companions. "So we need not discuss that. You will never be my agent!"
"Very good, ma'am—that's quite according to my expectations," said Chatfield, meekly. "I was always a misunderstood man. However, this here proposition will perhaps be more welcome. It's always been understood that I was to have a retiring pension of five hundred pounds per annum. The family has always promised it—I've letters to prove it. Will Miss Greyle stand to that if she comes in? I've been a faithful servant for nigh on to fifty years, Mr. Vickers, as all the neighbourhood is aware."
"If I come in, as you call it, you shall have your pension," said Audrey. Chatfield slowly felt in a capacious inner pocket and produced a large notebook and a fountain pen. He passed them to Vickers.
"We'll have that there in writing, signed and witnessed," he said. "Put, if you please, Mr. Vickers, 'I agree that if I come into the Scarhaven estate, Peter Chatfield shall at once be pensioned off with five hundred pounds a year, to be paid quarterly. Same to be properly assured to him for his life.' And then if Miss Greyle'll sign that document, and you gentlemen'll witness it, I shall consider that henceforth I'm in Miss Greyle's service. And," he added, with a significant glance all round, "I shall be a deal more use as a friend nor what I should be as what you might term an enemy—Mr. Vickers knows that."
Vickers held a short consultation with Audrey, the result of which was that the paper was duly signed, Witnessed, and deposited in Chatfield's pocket. And Chatfield nodded his satisfaction.
"All right," he said. "Now then, ma'am, and gentlemen, the next thing is to get away out o' this, and get on the track of them as put us here. We'd better start a big fire out o' this dry stuff—"
"But what about these revelations you were going to make?" said Vickers."I understood you were to tell us—"
"Sir," replied Chatfield, "I'll tell and I'll reveal in due course, and in good order. Events, sir, is the thing! Let me get to the nearest telegraph office, and we'll have some events, right smart. Let me attract attention. I've sailed in these seas before. There's steamers goes out of Kirkwall yonder frequent—we must get hold of one. A telegraph office!—that's what I want. I'm a-going to set up a blaze—and I'll set up a blaze elsewhere as soon as I can lay hands on a bundle o' telegraph forms!"
He leisurely took off his shawl and overcoat, laid them on a shelf of rock, and moved away to collect the dry stuff which lay to hand. The three young people exchanged glances.
"What's this new mystery?" asked Audrey.
"All bluff!—some deep game of his own," growled Copplestone. "He's the most consummate old liar I ever—"
"You're wrong this time, old chap!" interrupted Vickers. "He's a bad 'un—but he's on our side now—I'm convinced. It is a game he's playing, and a deep one, and I don't know what it is, but it's for our benefit—Chatfield's simply transferred his interest and influence to us—that's all. For his own purposes, of course. And"—he suddenly paused, gazed seaward, and then jumped to his feet. "Chatfield!" he called quietly. "You needn't light any fire. Here's a steamer!"
Chatfield, his arms filled with masses of dried bracken and coarse grass, turned sharply on hearing Vickers's call and stared hard and long in the direction which the young solicitor pointed out. His small, crafty eyes became dilated to their full extent—suddenly they contracted again with a look of cunning satisfaction, and throwing away his burdens he drew out a big many-coloured handkerchief and mopped his high forehead as if the perspiration which burst out were the result of intense mental relief.
"Didn't I know we should be rescued from this here imprisonment!" he cried with unctuous joy. "Thought they'd pinned me here for best part of a week, no doubt, while they could get theirselves quietly away—far away! But it's my experience 'ut them as has served the Lord's never deserted, Mr. Vickers, and if you live as long as—"
"Don't be blasphemous, Chatfield!" said Vickers, curtly. "None of that!What we'd better think about is the chance of that steamer sighting us.We'll light that fire, anyway!"
"She's coming straight on for the island," remarked Copplestone, who had been narrowly watching the approaching vessel. "So straight that you'd think she was actually making for it."
"She'll be some craft bound for Kirkwall," said Vickers, pointing northward to the main group of islands. "And in that case she'll probably take this channel on our west; that fire, now! Come on all of you, and let's make as big a smoke as we can get out of this stuff."
The weather being calm and the grass and bracken which they heaped together as dry as tinder, there was little difficulty about raising a thick column of smoke which presently rose high in the sky. But Audrey, turning away from the successful result of their labours, suddenly glanced at Copplestone with a look that challenged an answer to her own thoughts. They were standing a little apart from the others and she lowered her voice.
"I say!" she murmured. "I don't think we need have bothered ourselves to light that fire. That vessel, whatever it is, is making for us. Look!"
Copplestone shaded his eyes and stared out across the sea. The steamer was by that time no more than two or three miles away. But she was coming towards them in a dead straight line, and as she was accordingly bow on, and as her top deck and lamps were obscured by clouds of black smoke, pouring furiously from her funnels, they could make little out of her appearance. Copplestone's first notion was that she was a naval patrol boat, or a torpedo destroyer. Whatever she was it seemed certain that she was heading direct for the island, at that very point on which the fugitives had been landed the previous night. And it was very evident that she was in a great hurry to make her objective.
"I think you're right," he said, turning to Audrey. "But it's strange that any vessel should be making for an uninhabited island like this. What—but you've got some notion in your mind?" he broke off suddenly, seeing her glance at him again. "What is it?"
Audrey shook her head, with a cautious look at Chatfield.
"I was wondering if that's thePike?—come back!" she whispered. "And if it is—why?"
Copplestone started, and took a longer and keener look at the vessel. Before he could speak again, Vickers called out cheerily across the rocks.
"Come on, you two!" he cried. "She's seen us—she's coming in. They'll have to send off a boat. Let's get down to the beach, so that they'll know where there's a safe landing."
He sprang over the edge of the cliff and hurried down the rough path; Chatfield, picking up his coat and shawl, prepared to follow him; Audrey and Copplestone lingered until he, too, had begun to lumber downward.
"If that is thePike," said Audrey, "there is something—wrong. Whoever it is that is on thePikewouldn't come back to take us!"
"You think there is somebody on thePike—somebody other than Andrius?" suggested Copplestone.
"I believe the man who calls himself Marston Greyle was on thePike," announced Audrey. "I've always thought so. Whether Chatfield knew that or not, I don't know. My own belief is that Chatfield did know. I believe Chatfield was in with them, as the saying is. I think they were all running away with as much of the Scarhaven property as they could lay hands on and that having got it, they bundled Chatfield out and dumped him down here, having no further use for him. And, if that's thePike, and they're returning here, it's because they want Chatfield!"
Copplestone suddenly recognized that feminine instinct had solved a problem which masculine reason had so far left unsolved.
"By gad!" he exclaimed softly. "Then, if that is so, this is merely another of Chatfield's games. You don't believe him?"
"I would think myself within approachable distance of lunacy if I believed a word that Peter Chatfield said," she answered calmly. "Of course, he is playing a game of his own all through. He shall have his pension—if I have the power to give it—but believe him—oh, no!"
"Let's follow them," said Copplestone. "Something's going to happen—if that is thePike."
"Look there, then," exclaimed Audrey as they began to descend the cliff."Chatfield's already uneasy."
She pointed to the beach below, where Chatfield, now fully overcoated and shawled again, had mounted a ridge of rock, and while gazing intently at the vessel, was exchanging remarks with Vickers, who had evidently said something which had alarmed him. They caught Chatfield's excited ejaculations as they hurried over the sand.
"Don't say that, Mr. Vickers!" he was saying imploringly. "For God's sake, Mr. Vickers, don't suggest them there sort of thoughts. You make me feel right down poorly, Mr. Vickers, to say such! It's worse than a bad dream, Mr. Vickers—no, sir, no, surely you're mistaken!"
"Bet you a fiver to a halfpenny it's thePike," retorted Vickers. "I know her lines. Besides she's heading straight here. Copplestone!" he cried, turning to the advancing couple. "Do you know, I believe that's thePike!"
Copplestone gave Audrey's elbow a gentle squeeze.
"Look at old Chatfield!" he whispered. "By gad!—look at him. Yes," he called out loudly, "We know it's thePike—we saw that from the top of the cliffs. She's coming straight in."
"Oh, yes, it's thePike," exclaimed Audrey. "Aren't you delighted, Mr.Chatfield."
The agent suddenly turned his big fat face towards the three young people, with such an expression of craven fear on it that the sardonic jest which Copplestone was about to voice died away on his lips. Chatfield's creased cheeks and heavy jowl had become white as chalk; great beads of sweat rolled down them; his mouth opened and shut silently, and suddenly, as he raised his hands and wrung them, his knees began to quiver. It was evident that the man was badly, terribly afraid—and as they watched him in amazed wonder his eyes began to search the shore and the cliffs as if he were some hunted animal seeking any hole or cranny in which to hide. A sudden swelling of the light wind brought the steady throb of the oncoming engines to his ears and he turned on Vickers with a look that made the onlookers start.
"For goodness sake, Mr. Vickers!" he said in a queer, strained voice. "For heaven's sake, let's get ourselves away! Mr. Vickers—it ain't safe for none of us. We'd best to run, sir—let's get to the other side of the island. There's caves there—places—let's hide till something comes from the other islands, or till these folks goes away—I tell you it's dangerous for us to stop here!"
"We're not afraid, Chatfield," replied Vickers. "What ails you! Why man, you couldn't be more afraid if you'd murdered somebody! What do you suppose these people want? You, of course. And you can't escape—if they want you, they'll search the island till they get you. You've been deceiving us, Chatfield—there's something you've kept back. Now, what is it? What have they come back for?"
"Yes, Mr. Chatfield, what has thePikecome back for?" repeated Audrey, coming nearer. "Come now—hadn't you better tell?"
"It is thePike," remarked Copplestone. "Look there! And they're going to send in a boat. Better be quick, Chatfield."
The agent turned an ashen face towards the yacht. She had swung round and come to a halt, and the rattle of a boat being let down came menacingly to the frightened man's ears. He tittered a deep groan and his eyes again sought the cliffs.
"It's not a bit of good, Chatfield," said Vickers. "You can't get away.Good heavens, man!—what are you so frightened for!"
Chatfield moaned and drew haltingly nearer to the other three, as if he found some comfort in their mere presence.
"It's the money!" he whispered. "The money as was in the Norcaster Bank—two lots of it. He—the Squire—gave me authority to get out his lot what was standing in his name, you know—and the other—the estate lot—that was standing in mine—some fifty thousand pounds in all, Mr. Vickers. I had it all in gold, packed in sealed chests—and they—those on board there—thought I took them chests aboard thePikewith me. I did take chests, d'ye see—but they'd lead in 'em. The real stuff is hidden—buried—never mind where. And I know what they've come back for!—they've opened the chests I took on board, and they've found there's naught but lead. And they want me—me!—me! They'll torture me to make me tell where the real chests, the money is—torture me! Oh, for God's sake, keep 'em away from me—help me to hide—help me to get away—and I'll tell Miss Greyle then where the money's hid, and—oh, Lord, they're coming! Mr. Vickers—Mr. Vickers—"
He cast himself bodily at Vickers, as if to clutch him, but Vickers stepped agilely aside, and Chatfield fell on the sand, where he lay groaning while the others looked from him to each other.
"Ah!" said Vickers at last. "So that's it, is it, Chatfield? Trying to cheat everybody all round, eh? I suppose you'd have told Miss Greyle later that these people had collared all that gold—and then you'd have helped yourself to it? And now I know what you were doing on that yacht when we boarded it—you were one of the gang, and you meant to hook it with them—"
"I didn't—I didn't!" screamed Chatfield, beating the sand with his hands and feet. "I meant to slip away from 'em at a Scotch port we was to call at, and then—"
"Then you'd have gone back to the hidden chests and helped yourself," sneered Vickers. "Chatfield, you're a wicked old scoundrel, and an unmitigated liar! Give me that paper that Miss Greyle signed, this instant!"
"No!" interjected Audrey. "Let him keep it. He'll have trouble enough presently. It's very evident they mean to have him."
Chatfield heard the last few words and looked round at the edge of the surf. The boat had grounded on the shingle, and half a dozen men had leapt from it and were coming rapidly up the beach.
"Armed, by George!" exclaimed Copplestone. "No chance for you,Chatfield!"
The agent suddenly sprang to his feet with a howl of terror. He gave one more glance at the men and then he ran, clumsily, but with a speed made desperate by terror. He made straight for the rocks—and at that, two of the men, at a word from their leader, raised their rifles and fired. And with a shriek that set all the echoes ringing, the sea-birds screaming, and made Audrey clap her hands to her ears, Chatfield threw up his arms and dropped heavily on the sands.
"That's sheer murder!" exclaimed Vickers, as the yachtsmen came running up. "You'll answer for that, you know. Unless you mean to murder all of us."
The leader, a smiling-faced fellow, touched his cap respectfully, and grinned from ear to ear.
"Lor' bless you, sir, we shot twenty feet over his head!" he said. "He's too precious to shoot: they want him badly on board there. Now then, men, pick him up and get him into the boat—he'll come round quick enough when he finds he hasn't even a pellet in him. Handy, now! Captain's compliments, sir," he went on, turning again to Vickers, and pointing to certain things which were being unloaded from the boat, "and as he understands that no vessel will pass here for two more days, sir, he's sent you further provisions, some more wraps, and some books and papers."
Before Vickers and his companions had recovered from the surprise which this extraordinary cool message had given them, the men had bundled Chatfield across the beach and into the boat and were pulling quickly back to thePike.
Audrey broke the silence with a ringing laugh.
"Captain Andrius is certainly the perfection of polite pirates," she exclaimed. "More food—more wraps—and books and papers! Was any marooned mariner ever one-half so well treated?"
"What's the fellow mean about no vessel passing here for two more days?" growled Copplestone, who was glaring angrily at the yacht. "What's he so meticulously correct for?"
"I should say that he's referring to some weekly or bi-weekly steamer which runs between Kirkwall and the mainland," replied Vickers. "Well—it's good to know that, anyhow. But wait until thePike'svamoosed again, and we'll make up such a column of smoke that it'll be seen for many a mile. In fact, I'll go and gather a lot of dried stuff now—you two can drag those boxes and things up the beach and see what our gaolers have been good enough to send us."
He went away up the cliffs, and Audrey and Copplestone, once more left alone, looked at each other and laughed.
"That's right," said Copplestone. "What I like about you is that you take things that way."
"Is it any use taking them any other way?" she asked. "Besides I've never been at all frightened nor particularly concerned. I've always felt that we were only put here so that we should be out of the way while our captors got safely away with their booty, and as regards my mother, I know her well enough to feel sure that she quickly sized things up, and that she'll have taken measures of her own. Don't be surprised if we're rescued through her means or if she has set somebody to work to catch the predatoryPike."
"Good!" said Copplestone. "But as regards thePike, I wonder if you observed something during the few minutes she was here. I'm sure Vickers didn't—he was too busy, watching Chatfield."
"So was I," replied Audrey. "What was it?"
"I believe I'm unusually observant," answered Copplestone. "I seem to see things—all at once, don't you know. I saw that since we made her acquaintance—and were unceremoniously bundled off her—thePikehas got a new and quite different coat of paint. And I daresay she's changed her name, too. From all of which I argue that when they got rid of us here, the people who are working all this slipped quietly back to some cove or creek on the Scotch coast, did a stiff turn at repainting, and meant to be off to the other side of the world under new colours. And while this was going on, Andrius, or his co-villain, found time to examine those chests that Chatfield told us of, and when they found that Chatfield had done them, they came back here quick. Now they're off to make him reveal the whereabouts of the real chests."
"Won't they be rather running their necks into a noose?" suggested Audrey. "I'm dead certain that my mother will have raised a hue and cry after them."
"They're cute enough," said Copplestone. "Anyway, they'll run a good many risks for the sake of fifty thousand pounds. What they may do is to run into some very quiet inlet—there are hundreds on these northern coasts—and take Chatfield to his hiding-place. Chatfield's like all scoundrels of his type—a horrible coward if a pistol's held to his head. Now they've got him, they'll force him to disgorge. Hang this compulsory inactivity!—my nerves are all a-tingle to get going at things!"
"Let's occupy ourselves with the things our generous gaolers have been kind enough to send us, then," suggested Audrey. "We'd better carry them up to our shelter."
Copplestone went down to the things which the boat's crew had deposited on the beach—a couple of small packing-cases, a bundle of wraps and cushions, and some books, magazines and newspapers. He picked up a paper with a cry which suggested a discovery of importance.
"Look at that!" he exclaimed. "Do you see? AScotsman!Today's date!And here—Aberdeen Free Press—same date!"
"Well?" asked Audrey. "And what then?"
"What then?" demanded Copplestone. "Where are your powers of deduction? Why, that shows that thePikewas somewhere this morning where she could get the morning papers from Aberdeen and Edinburgh—therefore, she's been, as I suggested, somewhere on the Scotch coast all night. It's now noon—she's a fast sailer—I guess she's been within sixty miles of us ever since she left us."
"Isn't it more pertinent to speculate on where she'll be when we want to find her?" asked Audrey.
"More pertinent still to wonder when somebody will come to find us," answered Copplestone as he shouldered one of the cases. "However, there's a certain joy in uncertainty, so they say—we're tasting it."
The joys of uncertainty, however, were not to endure. They had scarcely completed the task of carrying up the newly-arrived stores to the shelter which they had made in an angle of the rocks when Vickers hailed them from a spur of the cliffs and waved his arms excitedly.
"I say, you two!" he shouted. "There's a craft coming—from the south-west. Come up! There!" he added, a few minutes later, when they arrived, breathless, at his side. "Out yonder—a mere black blot—but unmistakable! Do you know what that is, either of you? You don't? All right, I do—ought to, because I'm a R.N.V.R. man myself. That's a T.B.D., my friends!—torpedo-boat destroyer. What's more, far off as she is, my experienced eye and sure knowledge tell me exactly what she is. She's a class H. boat built last year—oil fuel—turbines—runs up to thirty knots—and she's doing 'em, too, just now! Come on, Copplestone—more stuff on this fire!"
"I don't think we need be uneasy," said Copplestone. "Miss Greyle thinks that her mother will have raised a hue and cry after thePike. This torpedo thing is probably looking round for us. She—what's that?"
The sudden sharp crack of a gun came across the calm surface of the sea, and the watchers turning from their fire towards the black object in the distance saw a cloud of white smoke drifting away from it.
"Hooray!" shouted Vickers. "She's seen our smoke-pillar! Shove more on, just to let her know we understand. Saved!—this time, anyway."
Half-an-hour later, a spick and span and eminently youthful-looking naval lieutenant raised his cap to the three folk who stood eagerly awaiting his approach at the edge of the surf.
"Miss Greyle? Mr. Vickers? Mr. Copplestone?" he asked as he sprang from his boat and came up. "Right!—we're searching for you—had wireless messages this morning. Where's the pirate, or whatever he is?"
"Somewhere away to the southward," answered Vickers, pointing into the haze. "He was here two hours ago—but he's about as fast as they make 'em, and he's good reason to show a clean pair of heels. However, we've ample grounds for believing him to have gone due south again. Where are you from?"
"Got the message off Dunnett Head, and we'll run you to Thurso," replied the rescuer, motioning them to enter the boat. "Come on—our commander's got some word or other for you. What's all this been?" he went on, gazing at Audrey with youthful assurance as they moved away from the shore. "You don't mean to say you've actually been kidnapped?"
"Kidnapped and marooned," replied Vickers. "And I hope you'll catch our kidnapper—he's got a tremendous amount of property on him which belongs to this lady, and he'll make tracks for the other side of the Atlantic as soon as he gets hold of some more which he's gone to collect."
The lieutenant regarded Audrey with still more interest. "Oh, all right," he said confidently. "He'll not get away. I guess they've wirelessed all over the place—our message was from the Admiralty!"
"That's Sir Cresswell's doing," said Copplestone, turning to Audrey. "Your mother must have wired to him. I wonder what the message is?" he asked, facing the lieutenant. "Do you know?"
"Something about if you're found to tell you to get south as fast as possible," he answered. "And we've worked that out for you. You can get on by train from Thurso to Inverness, and from Inverness, of course, you'll get the southern express. Well put you off at Thurso by two o'clock—just time to give you such lunch as our table affords—bit rough, you know. So you've really been all night on that island?" he went on with unaffected curiosity. "What a lark!"
"You'd have had an opportunity of studying character if you'd been with us," replied Vickers. "We lost a fine specimen of humanity two hours ago."
"Tell about it aboard," said the lieutenant. "We'll be thankful—we've been round this end-of-everywhere coast for a month and we're tired. It's quite a Godsend to have a little adventure."
Copplestone had been right in surmising that Sir Cresswell Oliver had bestirred himself to find him and his companions. They were presently shown his message. They were to get to Norcaster as quickly as possible, and to wire their whereabouts as soon as they were found. If, as seemed likely, they were picked up on the north coast of Scotland, they were to ask at Inverness railway station for telegrams. And to Inverness after being landed at Thurso they betook themselves, while the torpedo-boat destroyer set off to nose round for thePike, in case she came that way back from wherever she had gone to.
Copplestone came out of the station-master's office at Inverness with a couple of telegrams and read their contents over to his companions in the dining-room to which they adjourned.
"This is from Mrs. Greyle," he said. "'All right and much relieved by wire from Thurso. Bring Audrey home as quick as possible.' That's good! And this—Great Scott! This is from Gilling! Listen!—'Just heard from Petherton of your rescue. Come straight and sharp Norcaster. Meet me at the "Angel." Big things afoot. Spurge most anxious see you. Important news. Gilling.' So things have been going on," he concluded, turning the second telegram over to Vickers. "I suppose we'll have to travel all night?"
"Night express in an hour," replied Vickers. "We shall make Norcaster about five-thirty tomorrow morning."
"Then let us wire the time of our arrival to Gilling. I'm anxious to know what has brought him up there," said Copplestone. "And we'll wire to Mrs. Greyle, too," he added, turning to Audrey. "She'll know then that you're absolutely on the way."
"I wonder what we're on the way to?" remarked Vickers with a grim smile. "It strikes me that our recent alarms and excursions will have been as nothing to what awaits us at Norcaster."
What did await them on a cold, dismal morning at Norcaster was Gilling, stamping up and down a windswept platform. And Gilling seized on Copplestone almost before he could alight from the train.
"Come to the 'Angel' straight off!" he said. "Mrs. Greyle's there awaiting her daughter. I've work for you and Vickers at once—that chap Spurge is somewhere about the 'Angel,' too—been hanging round there since yesterday, heavy with news that he'll give to nobody but you."