Glancing about, Dennis saw only one article of luggage in the compartment—a small square suitcase, obviously new, and very well made. It lacked any mark of identification. Beyond doubt it belonged to the assassin.
"That was here when you dropped in for a smoke?" demanded Dennis, pointing at it.
Ericksen surveyed the square suitcase with surprise. "Must ha' been!"
From his pocket Tom Dennis produced the two small keys which the assassin had carried. He fitted one of them to the lock of the square suitcase; it worked. Meantime, Ericksen was watching him with ill-concealed anxiety.
Throwing back the lid of the square suitcase Dennis saw that it contained nothing except a small phonograph and half a dozen very large records. The labels on the records proclaimed them to be grand-opera selections. Frowning thoughtfully, Dennis closed and locked the suitcase.
"I'll take this along. You might as well keep this compartment, Ericksen—I took that scoundrel's tickets; here they are. You'll find this place more comfortable than a berth. And you needn't mention to Mrs. Dennis what's happened. It might only worry her. I fancy we've given your friends the slip entirely, eh? Sorry I suspected you at first."
"Oh, don't mention it," said Ericksen, wriggling a little.
The brigantine-riggedPelicanwas of but a hundred and fifty tons burden; yet her royal yard stood athwart the sky nearly ninety feet above the deck. She was not a pretty ship, despite her snowy cleanliness, but she was tall enough; in her 'midships stood the brick try-works, with two funnels, where blubber was rendered into oil; and she reeked of the whale-juice that had soaked her stout oaken timbers these forty years.
As she lay at anchor in Vancouver harbour, well up toward the second narrows, there were several peculiar features about her—peculiar, that is, to the trained seaman's eye.
She was bound for sea; yet she was altogether too late to get the spring catch off the Siberian coast; and if she went up into the Arctic to fill her hogsheads, she would certainly be ice-bound that winter, and few whalers were taking chances on being ice-bound those days! Then her crew had been all aboard for two days, and the majority of them were Kanakas—both facts being unusual. Why thePelicanwas still hanging about the harbour no one could say.
This old whaler had none too good a reputation, even among her kind; but this was chiefly because of her officers. Manuel Mendez, the black Cape Verde mate, was a strapping big man with a thin eagle-like profile exactly like that of the mummy of Rameses—a great hooked nose, and air of gentle refinement, and delicate lips. Manuel Mendez played the flute beautifully and was said to be a killer of men.
The second officer was an old man, forty years a whaler. Mr. Leman wore a fringe of white hair and whisker, stood six feet two and was muscled like a bull moose; they said he had been known to take a man's arm in his two hands and break it like a rotten stick. His face was heavy and flat, the eyes small and bright and deeply set. His nose had been crushed and had a crooked twist
One of the boat-steerers, Ericksen, was gone from the ship. The other, like the mate, was a Cape Verde man; his name was a Portuguese one, but he was called Corny. The brigantine had no cooper, for a wonder; her cook, like Ericksen, was absent.
The steward was a vicious little Cockney pickpocket who wanted to get out of Canada before the draught caught him; the cabin-boy was a green farmer-lad named Jerry, a moon-faced boy who had run off the farm a month previously. There was no one else aft.
In the forecastle were fifteen men. Ten of these were Kanakas—merry brown men who spoke their own guttural tongue and some broken English, and like all of their kind were noble seamen. The other five were broken-down white men, scum of the city, who were kept drunk and under hatches until thePelicanshould get to sea.
The ship was pervaded by a restless air—that is, in the after cabins. Up forward the Kanakas sang and worked light-heartedly, and the five bums snored in drunken repose. But aft all was different. Restrained excitement, an air of suspense, much whispering and wild speculating; thus the atmosphere seemed electrically charged.
Everyone knew that there was an invalid down below—a man in a wheeled chair, a man who could not speak a single word or move a finger. Jerry affirmed he could eat, and could use his ears, but little more, as his eyes also were somewhat affected. Then, the skipper's wife was aboard for the cruise; and when she came to the deck, men smartened up—not because they loved her, but because they feared and hated her. She was known to all aboard as the Missus—that was her title.
It was five in the afternoon. Two bells had just been struck on the brass ship's bell abaft the mizzenmast when the Missus appeared on the quarter-deck. Sea-watches had been set, and Mr. Leman had the deck, Mrs. Pontifex was a strapping big woman with iron-grey hair and a jaw like rock; her unchanging expression was indomitable and not too sweet.
"No sign of that boat, Mr. Leman?" she demanded in a raucous voice which held a distinct Yankee twang.
"No, ma'am," meekly responded the second officer. "Train must ha' been late. Them trains often is, I'm told."
The Missus espied a Kanaka sprawled in the waist; half-leaning against the try-works, he was asleep in the westerning sun. She strode to him and aroused him with a sturdy kick in the ribs.
"Do your sleepin' daown below, ye scouse!" she roared. "This is no berth-deck. Yeou, Corny! Who went in Mr. Mendez' boat when he took the Cap'n ashore?"
"Six of the Kanakas, ma'am," responded the black boat-steerer.
"Hm! Then they'll not run off. All ready for sea, Mr. Leman?"
"All ready, ma'am."
"The minute yeou sight that boat, break aout the signal for the tug. When the boat comes alongside, yeou tell the cap'n that we've been ordered to shift anchorage. That'll keep the girl and her fool husband quiet, I reckon!"
"Yes, ma'am. And then?"
"Cast off the tug aoutside the Lion's Gate an' lay a course for Unalaska."
"But, ma'am—how about Frenchy? We ain't got no cook 'cept him!" Mr. Leman rubbed his fringe of whiskers in evident perturbation over putting to sea without a cook. "You know, ma'am, Boatswain Joe wired about him gettin' left behind."
"Never mind 'baout Dumont." Mrs. Pontifex's lips set in a grim line. "He's got his orders, and I wired money to him. He'll go to Unalaska by steamer and wait there until we put in."
"And who'll do the cookin' meantime?"
"I will. Naow yeou get hove up on that hawser, so's yeou can jerk up the hook in a hurry."
Mr. Leman hastened forward, bawling orders as he went.
Now, if there was one thing in particular for which Tom Dennis was not in the least prepared, it was for the reception which awaited him at Vancouver. He had anticipated a seaman's cottage in the suburbs, a protracted stay at an hotel or boarding-house, and so forth.
Instead of this, upon alighting from the train he found himself and Florence shaking hands with Captain Pontifex to whom Ericksen introduced them with much delight. The "Skipper" was not, to the suspicious eye of Dennis, prepossessing in appearance. His curled black moustache, his swarthy cavernous features, his alert dark eyes, were all well enough; but the moustache concealed a cruel and bitter mouth; the features were high-boned and sharp; and the eyes were of the heavy-lidded type—the eyes of a master of men, the eyes of a Hindenburg.
First impressions were almost effaced, however, by the polished cordiality of Pontifex. He was a man of education, of intense personality, and he was at some pains to make himself agreeable. Florence's first question was for her father.
"We have taken him aboard thePelican, Mrs. Dennis; he seemed to miss the salt air, and the lease on our cottage was up," responded Pontifex. "This way, please—I have a taxicab waiting! I have a cabin all ready for you aboard ship, and Mrs. Pontifex promised to have a bang-up dinner at six sharp; so we've just time to make the ship. If you'll let me have your trunk-checks, Mr. Dennis——"
"But Captain, we can't impose upon your hospitality!" interrupted Tom Dennis. "It's mighty good of you, but——"
"Nonsense, my dear chap!" Pontifex laughed and seized his arm, impelling him, toward the cab. "It's a great pleasure, I assure you! Of course you young married folks will be glad of solitude after you get settled down with the old cap'n, but—I suppose Ericksen told you the business we had in hand?"
"Ericksen told us nothing," returned Dennis.
"Good for the Boatswain!" Pontifex laughed again. "I warned him to keep a close tongue. Well, suppose we pass up business for to-night, and in the morning we'll get together, eh? The directors of the company will be all aboard then; you'll be our guests for a time."
"What company?" interjected Florence.
"Ah, that's the secret!" Pontifex bowed her into the cab, his white teeth showing in a smile. "A surprise for you, madam! It was odd, the way I happened to pick up your father—poor man, stuck away in a sailor's home, unable to tell so much as his name! You know, we were always pretty good friends, Miles and I."
Tom Dennis found his suspicions fading, and his first dislike of Pontifex was lulled to rest by the man's vivid personality. Pontifex had character, plenty of it, and like all strong men could make himself greatly liked or greatly hated almost at will. He appeared to be a good-humoured, masterly sort of man, heartily loving a joke, and radiating an air of alert and genial manliness. Dennis adjudged him a good friend but a bad enemy.
"We hope that the shock of seeing you, Mrs. Dennis, will restore your father's power of speech," went on Pontifex. "For that reason we've not told him——"
"But how can he be so paralysed?" demanded Florence quickly. "Can he hear, and not speak? Why——"
"My dear young lady, the best doctors in Vancouver can't account for it!" Pontifex shook his head with an air of paternal solicitude. "It's one of the freak cases of paralysis; but it's not at all an unusual case. He can move his eyelids slightly, his eyes perfectly; he can eat and drink fairly well; yet his vocal cords are entirely paralysed."
Without opportunity for further converse they reached the water-front, and Captain Pontifex led the way toward the landing-stage. Tom Dennis had his own grip, a huge affair as large as a small trunk, and two bags belonging to Florence; of these latter the skipper had assumed charge.
Upon reaching the boat with its six merry Kanaka rowers, Manuel Mendez was introduced by Pontifex. Mendez made up for his broken English by a wide grin, and assisted Florence down into the stern-sheets of the boat, beside the Skipper, who took charge of the long steering-oar. Dennis climbed into the bow with Mendez.
After a short wait Ericksen appeared, a truckman helping him bear the one trunk which Florence had brought; this was stowed in the boat. Ericksen shook hands with Mendez, flinging a laughing greeting to the men; the Skipper, standing, flung an impatient word at Ericksen, and the latter turned to Dennis.
"I didn't see nothin' of that square suitcase, Mr. Dennis—the one you took out o' that other compartment."
Tom Dennis laughed unconcernedly. "Oh, that! There was nothing in it I wanted, Boatswain Joe; I gave it to the porter the first night out."
Ericksen dropped his pipe to the wharf and stooped for it, with a rumbling of low words which did not sound like blessings. Captain Pontifex changed countenance, then snapped a command at the boat steerer. His voice was suddenly metallic, piercing.
"Hurry up, there, Boatswain! We've no time to dally around."
Boatswain Joe, looking very much like a dog who is about to receive a sound thrashing, jumped down into the boat. The bowman shoved off. The oars flashed. The whaleboat swung out into the estuary.
Tom Dennis entertained an uneasy feeling that he had been bodily abducted—and laughed at himself for a simpleton. Mendez pointed out thePelicanas they approached her, and from the other direction a tug was crawling up to the brigantine. As the boat drew under the brown side of the ship, a flat white-whiskered face appeared above the ladder; Mendez informed Dennis that this was the second mate, Mr. Leman.
"Ahoy, Cap'n!" called Leman in unexpectedly stentorian tones. "We've been ordered to shift our anchorage, sir—port authorities. Tug comin' now!"
"Very well, Mr. Leman," returned Pontifex briskly. "Pass a line from the forward bitts and stand ready to heave up the hook. Mr. Mendez, will you attend to this luggage? All ready, Miss—pardon, Mrs. Dennis! May I assist you up the ladder?"
If Florence entertained any shrinking from that steep approach, she concealed it well, and with the aid of Pontifex was soon on the deck above being introduced to the Missus. Tom Dennis followed. The Missus gave him a mighty hand-grip, then turned to Florence.
"Supper's all ready," announced Mrs. Pontifex. "I suppose, poor dear, yeou'd sooner see your poor father first? Then come with me—do. Cap'n, yeou make that man Ericksen wash his face and hands before he sits daown to table! And put a clean shirt on him."
Boatswain Joe was just then coming up the side, and heard the words.
"You hear?" snapped Pontifex.
"Yes sir," he responded meekly, and his freckled face looked rather white.
Mrs. Pontifex departed with Florence, and Tom Dennis joined them at a glance from the latter. All three passed down the after companion.
In a wheeled chair set beside the stern windows of the cabin sat Miles Hathaway. He was not as Tom Dennis had seen him pictured, for his rocky and indomitable face was half-concealed by a growth of shaggy grey beard. His hair, too, had grown long and was streaked with grey. He sat motionless, hands in lap. His eyes, wide glowing brown eyes like those of Florence, were fastened upon the three who entered.
The meeting was pitiful almost to tragedy. With a wordless cry Florence ran to her father and knelt beside him, clasping him in her arms, her head against his broad and massive chest. The man sat there unstirring, helpless. His eyes seemed to lack the swift play of cheek-muscles and lids which gives expression; yet, as those eyes dwelt upon the upturned face of Florence, they seemed to dilate with incredulous horror.
"We've brought your daughter, Cap'n Hathaway," announced Mrs. Pontifex stridently, "and her husband, Mr. Dennis."
The eyes of the helpless man turned to Dennis and rested upon his gaze. The mouth of Miles Hathaway opened; he tried terribly and frightfully to stir himself, to break the invisible bonds which held him tied down—and he failed. He could not speak or move. Yet his eyes, fastened upon the face of Dennis, seemed filled with some awful and momentous message.
"I'm so glad we've found you, Father dear!" said Florence softly, tears on her cheeks. "Tom and I are going to take care of you always, and if only Mother were here—she never knew that you were alive."
Again the mouth of Miles Hathaway opened spasmodically, but he could not speak His eyes were horrible to see, so dumbly eloquent were they of the useless will of the man. Tom Dennis could not bear the scene further, and touched the arm of Mrs. Pontifex.
"Leave them—for a little while."
The woman nodded. They left father and daughter together. The Missus led the way to the mess-cabin, where they found Pontifex opening a bottle of wine. Up above, feet were trampling the deck, and the brig was heeling a trifle.
"A real dinner!" exclaimed Pontifex heartily. "A real wedding dinner, eh? Mr. Leman has the deck, my dear, and he's called all hands; so for once we'll have a quiet family meal, eh? Where's Mrs. Dennis? Oh, with her father, of course. A sad meeting for her!"
"Yes. But for you, Captain Pontifex, there would have been none at all," said Dennis warmly. "We owe you a good deal——"
"There, there, don't mention it!" Pontifex gave his curled mustache a twirl, and his white teeth flashed out in a smile. "We'll have our pay, never fear, the Missus and I. Talk it over in the morning, eh? I suppose you're pretty familiar with your Dumas, Mr. Dennis? Well, well—a bother having to change our anchorage this way, but the port authorities know their business these war-times, of course. Well, sit down."
The dinner was excellent—although, owing to the motion of the ship, the dishes joggled more than a little. Captain Pontifex made light of it, explaining that they might not reach their new anchorage until midnight.
With the coffee was served a liqueur, the most peculiar and biting Tom Dennis had ever tasted. The skipper stated that it was a queer distillation made from flour and molasses by a Siberian Eskimo—quite a rarity. Perhaps it was this liqueur which made Tom Dennis most unaccountably sleepy; indeed, he could hardly stumble off to the mate's cabin which had been assigned him and Florence. And as he retired, he could faintly hear the roaring bellow of Boatswain Joe, somewhere on deck:
"She was waiting for a fair wind to get under way,Alongtime ago!"
The last vague thought of Tom Dennis was a mental query as to why Captain Pontifex had asked him if he were familiar with Dumas. He was to remember it later, also.
Upon the morning after thePelicanstood out of the Lion's Gate and headed southward, she was outside Cape Flattery and standing off to the northwest, bucking and pitching and leaning over under a stiff blow from the westward.
Captain Pontifex, although on this cruise he carried no third mate, adhered to the custom of whaling skippers and stood no watches himself except at times of necessity. On this fine morning, however, he was on the quarter-deck, talking with black Manuel Mendez. The steward approached them gingerly, for he was rather seasick.
"Well?" snapped the skipper. "How are they? Do they know we're at sea?"
"Yes, sir, they seem to, sir," returned the Cockney. "Mr. Dennis is wery sick, sir. The lady, sir, is not."
"Taking care of him, is she?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, steward, you give them my compliments, and say that I expect them to appear in the saloon cabin at four bells sharp."
"Yes, sir."
"And, steward! You might ask the Missus for a bit of raw blubber. Eat it raw, steward, and it'll cure what's ailing you. fat whale blubber——"
"Yes, sir," said the steward faintly, his cheeks turning green. He fled in haste.
Black Mendez grinned delightedly. "Dey'll be no good for fight, Cap'n."
The skipper merely laughed in his throat, and strode to the companion way. He had changed overnight. No longer was he under the shadow of the land, under the hand of port and civil and military authorities! No longer was he among the meshes of mankind's net! Here he was the master. Here he was authority ultimate and supreme. Here, on the high seas, his word, and his alone, was law. He only dictated; all others obeyed! He was the skipper. He was absolute.
Something of all this showed in his eyes as he went below. At the foot of the ladder he met the Missus, rock-like and indomitable. She looked into his eyes and shrank slightly.
"At four bells," said Captain Pontifex curtly. "In the cabin—with him."
She nodded and looked after him as he swung away aft. She was afraid of him, but she was proud of him—was she not his woman? She, of whom all others aboard thePelicanwere in dread, stood in fear of the skipper.
Captain Pontifex passed into the saloon at the stern, where the helpless Miles Hathaway sat in his chair beside the screwed-down cot that served him as a bunk. Despite the hardness and the harshness and the terror of the Missus' life, she was after all a woman; the cabin ports were curtained with flowered chintz, the big gun-rack and the little bookcase were also curtained; in the corner near the stern ports was a heavy tea-jar lashed to the deck, in which blossomed a huge scarlet geranium plant. This geranium was the pride and joy of the Missus, and the envy and admiration of all visiting whaling skippers.
The skipper pulled up a chair in front of Miles Hathaway, stuffed tobacco into his pipe, struck a match and, through the ensuing cloud of smoke, fastened his keen dark eyes upon the staring gaze of the paralytic.
"Well," he observed, "I've got 'em, haven't I? Bit of a surprise, eh?"
It seemed as though some fearful inner convulsion swept over the helpless man. His mouth opened slightly; his eyelids jerked. But he could not speak.
Pontifex laughed. "Told you I'd make you talk, didn't I? We're off to sea at last, Cap'n, and I've got her aboard. Also, her husband—she'll be a widow early, won't she? That is, if you're still stubborn. Well, I told you that I expected to go Dumaspèreone better, by the aid of modern science; but, my dear Miles, we must continue to stick to the old novelist a little while. So you'll kindly answer in the usual way when I ask questions."
For a moment Pontifex puffed at his pipe. Then he took from the table another pipe, filled it with tobacco, lighted it, and placed it between the teeth of Hathaway.
"Now we'll have a friendly little chat over our 'baccy, eh? Real old sailormen, eh?" He chuckled with horrible mockery. "At four bells, Cap'n, they'll come in here and we'll hold a meeting of the directorate. The Hathaway Salvage Company—how's that, eh? Sorry you're out of it. Do you remember that time in Vladivostok, when you met me on the street and cursed me back and forth for marooning those deserters on an ice-floe? Well, I told you then that I'd get even, Miles. And now—sheis at sea with me! Good joke, eh?"
The subtle horror-gleam in the eyes of Miles Hathaway was intensified. His massive face purpled, then paled again under its stubble of whitish beard.
"Bo'sun Joe slipped up in letting her get married," pursued Pontifex. "But we'll need her signature and that of her husband—or we'll so tell them. Savvy, Miles? We'll tell 'em that; we'll make it convincing, too. We'll make 'em quite certain that what we want is their signatures and their help. But you know better, Miles!
"Yes, you know better. You know that I had to get the girl in order to make you talk, blast you! That's why I spent money getting her. That's why I got her. As for Dennis, we'll get rid of him later. He doesn't count."
Again Pontifex resumed his pipe, puffing it alight. He spoke smilingly, now—an ugly smile that curved his lips. He leaned forward with a swift intent question.
"If it's hard to use your eyelids, Miles, answer with the pipe. Are you going to tell me where theJohn Simpsonlays?"
Captain Hathaway sent a single spiral of smoke up-curling from his pipe.
"No?" Pontifex ceased to smile. "We've tried torturing you, Miles, and you're as stubborn a devil as I ever met. Do you want us to bring the girl in here and tortureher—under your eyes? Hm! You remember Frenchy, who put the irons to your feet? Well—Frenchy has spoken for her. And Frenchy comes aboard at Unalaska.
"Now, Miles, if you give me the bearings of theSimpson, I'll put you and her and her man ashore at Unalaska, all shipshape. I give you my solemn word on it, and you know my word means something; whatever else I do, I don't break my word! By the time we reach Unalaska you'll understand pretty well how we're going to work on things. The day we hit Unimak Pass I'll ask you once more—and only once. If you refuse, I'll set to work on the girl—or Frenchy will. You think it over, Miles. You think it over hard, blast you! Now that she's here, I'm going tomakeyou talk!"
Pontifex knocked out his pipe and that of Hathaway. Then he went on deck.
In the meantime his good wife was visiting the Dennis cabin. Florence, for all her slim frailness, was untouched bymal-de-mer, and greeted the Missus smilingly. Tom Dennis, sitting on the lower bunk, managed a weak grin. He was rapidly growing better.
"The steward brought yeou breakfast?" said the Missus, "Is Mr. Dennis feeling better?"
"Quite, I think," responded Florence. "Surely we're not at sea?"
Mrs. Pontifex nodded. "Oh, yes, we're well aoutside Flattery."
"And what are we doing there?" demanded Tom Dennis in surprise.
"Making abaout nine knots," coolly returned the Missus, transfixing him with her deep cold eyes. "Never mind discussing it naow. If yeou folks will show up in the cabin at four bells, we'll talk it aout!"
"But what does it mean?" Florence, a little pale, laid her hand upon the woman's arm. Her eyes searched the rocklike features with anxious pleading. "Won't you please tell me? There's nothing wrong?"
"Nothing wrong at all, dearie." Mrs. Pontifex patted the girl's hand and smiled a flinty smile. "It means money in all our pockets, that's what it means—aye, in yours, too! So don't think too hard of us for running off to sea with yeou young folks until ye know all abaout it.
"And naow, dearie, I have to do the cooking, because that blasted cook of ours went ashore and didn't show up again. Taking care of your poor father has 'baout worn me daown, and I know yeou'll be willing to look after him a bit——"
"Of course! I meant to speak to you about it before this!" exclaimed Florence. "If you'll show me——"
"Come right along with me. He ain't much trouble, poor man, and it's the least we can do to make him comfortable. If there's anything yeou want done, too, just call steward and tell him."
"We'll be back soon, Tom dear," said Florence, and departed with Mrs. Pontifex.
When the door closed, Tom Dennis sat motionless for a moment, then raised his head. He slipped to the deck and stood upright, holding to the bunk. A slow smile crept into his chalky features, and presently he stretched himself luxuriantly.
"Passing off! I'm bad, but not near so bad as I might be," he commented audibly. "It's a good thing for me that I was raised on the Maine coast, and know ships and the sea as well as anybody! They don't know it, however, and Florence won't tell. Now, why the deuce have they kidnapped us this way?"
Frowning he sipped some cold coffee from a pot left by the steward an hour earlier, Then he went to his huge trunk of a grip, its telescopic sides fat almost to bursting, which lay at the head of the bunk.
He unlocked the big grip and opened it. Then he discarded his shirt and collar, the same which he had worn the preceding day, and slipped into a grey flannel shirt which he took from the suitcase. His tie knotted about the collar, he returned to the grip and knelt above it. Drawing forth some clothes, he threw them carelessly on the floor—threw out more, until a pile of rumpled garments lay beside him. Then he produced a large flat package and two small ones. He opened these, disclosing six large phonograph records, a reproducer, and a box of needles. Then, from within the suitcase he lifted out a small hornless phonograph itself. He stared down at it and chuckled.
"I told Ericksen the truth when I said I'd given that square suitcase to the porter," he reflected, as he fitted the reproducer to the machine. "But I didn't mention that I'd kept the things in the suitcase."
Just why he had done this, Tom Dennis was by no means certain, except that his suspicions of Ericksen had never quite downed. It was very curious that the sole baggage of the assassin had consisted of this phonograph outfit. Bo'sun Joe's interest in the matter was also curious; his presence in the compartment belonging to the assassin had never ceased to trouble Tom Dennis. More than he cared to admit, Dennis suspected that there was, or had been, some definite relation, and by no means an unfriendly one, between Ericksen and the would-be murderer.
And why had that man possessed nothing except this phonograph and six grand-opera records? Dennis wanted to try out those records. He strongly hoped that the labels might be a blind—that the records might have some information to convey. Did those records hold the secret, then?
Dennis wound up the machine, inserted a needle in the slot, and set one of the records upon the turntable. To his complete and utter stupefaction he found that upon the record was not a word; merely a deep bass voice repeating the alphabet over and over in a slow and distinct sequence! After each letter "zed", followed the numerals from one to naught.
One after another, Dennis tried each of the six records, patiently listening to that maddening repetition of that alphabet. There was positively nothing else on them!
At length he glanced at his watch, found that it was nearly ten o'clock, or four bells. With no little disdain and disappointment, he bundled the phonograph and records back into the depths of his suitcase, and was just locking the grip when Florence entered the cabin.
"Are you ready, dear?" she demanded eagerly, a spot of colour in her pale cheeks. "They're all waiting for us there in the cabin—and, Tom! It's a company! The Hathaway Salvage Company!"
"And what does that mean?" asked Dennis smiling as he kissed her.
"They're going to tell us. Are you better, dear?"
"Oh, I'm all right—able to walk, anyhow. Forward, and solve the mystery!"
Together they left their cabin and went aft.
In company with Miles Hathaway and the tall scarlet geranium in the green-striped jar, they found five people sitting around the table. At the head was Captain Pontifex, at the foot the Missus. On one side sat Mr. Leman, pawing his fringe of whiskers. At the other sat Ericksen, a satanic twist to his freckled mouth as he eyed Captain Hathaway, and at his side the black boat-steerer, Corny.
For a wonder, Pontifex rose as Florence entered the room, the others following his example. The skipper indicated two chairs placed beside Leman.
"Will you sit down, please? I have the pleasure of introducing our officers, except Mr. Mendez, who has the deck. Mr. Leman, our second mate; you know Ericksen, I think, and Corny. This chair, Mrs. Dennis—thank you. I might add that we are the officers and directors of the Hathaway Salvage Company of which I am president, Mrs. Pontifex, treasurer; Mr. Leman, secretary—the other gentlemen directors."
Dennis, feeling rather helpless and bewildered, sank into the chair beside Florence.
"For our own protection"—the skipper twirled his moustache—"we have been forced to maintain silence until we were at sea. Were it known that Captain Miles Hathaway were alive, a fortune would be lost to us all; this one fact will explain many questions which may have perplexed you, Mr. Dennis."
"A few things need explanation, all right," said Dennis.
"Conceded!" The skipper smiled. "I may add that we are not bound for the whaling grounds, and we are not upon a whaling cruise, as everyone has imagined. For that reason we have shipped Kanakas for'ard; they are faithful good seamen, and ask no questions. Neither they nor the other fo'c'sle hands, of course, are in this company of ours."
"And what is the purpose of the company, then?" asked Florence quickly.
"It may be very briefly stated in one word: salvage! Your father's ship, theJohn Simpson, was lost at sea with all hands. But the natives who brought your poor father into Unalaska told a story of having found him upon the shore of an island, doubtless one of the Aleuts; and under the lee of that island they had seen a wreck in water so shallow that her masts stuck out above the surface. That wreck was theSimpson.
"You may know that the majority of those islands are deserted, waterless, good for nothing. Not even a Jap sealing poacher would observe the masts of a wreck, unless by chance he came to the spot. We may take it for granted that theSimpsonhas never been found. Unfortunately, the natives who brought in Captain Hathaway gave no exact location and disappeared almost at once."
Tom Dennis leaned forward. "But why salvage a ship that's been wrecked? She's of no earthly good! And her cargo will belong to the owners."
"Not so. She has been taken off the register!" Captain Pontifex showed his white teeth in a smile of perfect confidence. "The point is this, Mr. Dennis: the ship was lost whileen routeto Vladivostok, laden with supplies for Russia. Those supplies consisted of machine-guns almost entirely; of machine-guns and ammunition.
"Water will not have harmed that cargo, Mr. Dennis—or if so, only slightly. I have taken pains to ascertain that the guns were so wrapped as to be waterproof. The value runs up close to a million and a half of dollars. The inference is plain, eh?"
Tom Dennis sat back, stunned. The inference was plain indeed—a million and a half to be had for the picking up!
As in a daze, Tom Dennis listened while Pontifex went on to explain that Miles Hathaway alone knew where theSimpsonlay; that thus far they had been unable to find a way to extract that knowledge from Hathaway—just here the skipper's voice was very silky—and that they counted upon Florence to hit upon some method of communication.
But, the skipper hastened on, this was not the real reason for Florence's having been fetched in person. She was the legal heir of Hathaway, and also his guardian, under the present conditions.
"Of course," said Pontifex blandly, "we might have gone ahead and you would never have known about it; but we don't do business that way, Mrs. Dennis. We want to be aboveboard and honourable in the matter. We dared not thresh the thing out there in the harbour, for you've no idea how curious shipping people are! A breath of suspicion as to our real business, and we'd have been lost. So we simply ran away with you—not a bad joke, eh? Ran away with you to make your fortune!
"Well, to business. Our proposition is that you sign articles with us—Mr. Dennis also, since he is your husband and we want everything shipshape—and we'll land you at Unalaska, there to wait until we've turned the trick. Of course, you realize that we're giving our time, the wages of the men, the ship, and all the rest, to the venture. We've talked over what's fair, and we think that the right thing to do is to offer you twenty per centum of the gross proceeds of the salvage. Is that agreeable?"
Florence, her wide brown eyes fastened upon Tom Dennis, seemed to await his decision in breathless eagerness. He nodded, without speaking.
Captain Pontifex produced a paper which must have been long prepared, for it was typed, and handed it to Dennis. The latter glanced it over. The writing was no more than an agreement to the terms as Pontifex had outlined them: Dennis passed the paper to Florence.
"Pontifex," he said slowly, "you're white in this thing! I tell you we appreciate it. Yes, I can understand a good many things now that weren't clear to me before. Your offer is generous. It's eminently square. We're not rich, and if this thing goes through it'll mean a great deal to us—and to the future comfort of Captain Hathaway."
Florence hastily signing the paper with the fountain pen which the skipper had handed her, shoved pen and paper at Dennis, then leaped to her feet. An excited smile upon her lips, her great brown eyes glowing with life and eagerness, she insisted on shaking hands with everyone at the table. Her slender frame seemed filled with a sudden flame of vitality.
"You've made me so happy!" she cried, speaking then to Pontifex. "Not the money, not alone what it will mean to us all—but your goodness! All of you! Oh, if father could only tell you how he must feel about it——"
She flung her arms around Mrs. Pontifex and kissed that lady heartily.
Up the craggy countenance of the Missus welled a slow tide of crimson, which swiftly waned again. Corny looked at Boatswain Joe and grinned. The deep-set, cavernous eyes of Captain Pontifex sought the impassively watching face of Miles Hathaway—sought it with a satiric gleam in their dark depths. Then they returned to the girl.
"Duty is duty," he said unctuously. "We've tried to do what's right, madam. The consciousness of having done right is a great stay in time of trouble. We——"
The words were cut short by an appalling scream which seemed to wail out of the air overhead, At that scream a silence like death fell upon the cabin.
Corny furtively crossed himself. Mr. Leman's flat ugly face turned quite white. Ericksen flung back his chair and was gone with a rush. Captain Pontifex leaped to his feet and followed Boatswain Joe to the companion. As he set foot on the ladder, the others crowding at his heels, the brig heeled over amid a confused trampling and shouting from above. Florence cried out in fear.
Manuel Mendez was helping a Kanaka at the wheel, jamming it hard down, bringing the brig slowly about; he was bawling orders, while all hands were trimming sail.
"One o' dem lubbers fell off de royal yard!" bellowed Mendez at the skipper. He did not think it necessary to explain that, as a good joke, he had sent one of the drink-dazed white hands up to the royal, grinning delightedly as the poor devil shivered and clung in fright above the swimming waste of water. But another of the white men forward had seen.
"It was him done it!" yelled the man angrily, pointing at Mendez. "He shifted the helm to——"
Boatswain Joe's fist stopped the utterance, sent the man rolling into the scuppers.
"Get out that for'ard boat, Bo'sun!" shouted Captain Pontifex, his voice piercing the wind as steel pierces paper. "Lively, now—lively!"
Tom Dennis stood at the top of the companionway, his arm about Florence. Beside him stood the Missus, rocklike and silent. Dennis had caught those words from forward, and seen Ericksen's blow; he stood grimly watching, his lips compressed.
Mr. Leman, with uncanny swiftness, joined Boatswain Joe at the forward whaleboat. It was quickly swung out and lowered, the Kanakas tumbling into it, Leman and Ericksen following. Behind, somewhere in the tossing sea crests, was the black dot of a man's head. Before the boat was half-way to it, the head had vanished. The man was gone.
"Be a little more careful with those men, Mr. Mendez," said Pontifex, watching the whaleboat put about and return. "We'll need 'em."
That was all. No anger, no inquiry, no more concern over the death of a man—the needless brutal murder of a man—than if that man had been a wandering sea-gull. Tom Dennis drew Florence below, hoping that she had not understood. But when he looked into her eyes, he knew that shehadunderstood.
"Tom, I—can't believe it!" she said faintly, horror in her wide brown eyes. "He spoke as though—it didn't matter."
Dennis made light of the affair. "Never mind, dear. We don't know all the circumstances, and of course the skipper can't blame his mate in public. It would hurt discipline. Just try and forget it, and not refer to it."
The girl shivered. "I can't forget that awful scream!"
No further reference was made to the affair, beyond the skipper's explaining, later, that an unavoidable lurch of the ship had caused the accident. But it was long before Florence could look upon Manuel Mendez, when he joined them at mess, without changing countenance. There was something dreadful in the grinning calm of the black Portuguese. His eternal good humour was ominous.
"We mustn't let little outside matters affect us," said Tom Dennis that same night. "The main point, Florence, so far as we're concerned, is your father, and the way Pontifex and his company are acting."
"I know, Tom, dear," she said. "They've been very good."
He sensed a constraint in her air, but put it down to the accident.
Two days later, however, the inquietude within him, which had been lulled to sleep by that meeting of the company, was awakened with terrible swiftness. He had been discussing with Pontifex how to get into communication with Miles Hathaway, and the skipper professed himself quite helpless in the matter, leaving it entirely to Florence's ingenuity.
The lack of concern which Pontifex expressed struck Tom Dennis as being unnatural, under the circumstances. But a little later, as Dennis stood in talk with Mr. Leman, who was discussing whaling voyages, he squinted up at the sails.
"Better trim your yards a bit, hadn't you?" said Dennis thoughtlessly. "Looks as if you were losing a good bit of that wind, Mr. Leman."
The mate started slightly.
"Where'd you learn so much about sails, Mr. Dennis?"
"Oh, I just picked it up," Dennis laughed. "But if you're in a hurry to reach Unalaska, I should think you'd trim sail a bit."
"Orders were to keep her as she is," said Leman curtly, and turned away.
Dennis shrugged his shoulders. It was none of his business how the ship was run, and if Pontifex had reasons for not hurrying, well and good.
Meantime, the silent and motionless Miles Hathaway sat in the cabin, puffing sometimes at the pipe Florence filled for him, watching her as she worked, with unmoving terrible eyes. Tom helped her take care of him, and always it seemed to Dennis that Hathaway was mutely struggling to express something. Once Dennis got out a chart and attempted to locate the wreck.
"Watch my finger, Captain Hathaway," he directed. "If I get 'warm', as the kids used to say, open your mouth."
The effort was fruitless, for although Dennis traced his fingers over the entire line of the Aleuts, Miles Hathaway remained unmoving. In the end, Dennis began to think that the man either did not understand, or possessed a brain as dead as his body. At times, too, the paralytic was almost unable to open his mouth or to swallow. His lips had no independent motion. To communicate with him seemed impossible.
It was the third evening following the meeting in the cabin. Tom and Florence had put Hathaway to bed, and after bidding the skipper and his wife good night, went on deck for a breath of air. Mendez had the deck. Wishing to avoid the black mate, Florence led the way forward to the lee of the brick try-works. There Tom Dennis lighted his pipe, and for a little they sat together in silence, under the strangely soothing yet invigorating influence of the slapping sails and the rushing foam-crested rollers that roared under the lee-rail.
Suddenly a figure appeared coming from aft, preceded by a whimpering sniffle. It was Jerry, the moon-faced cabin boy and he was blubbering away with the subdued racking sobs of a boy.
"Hello, Jerry!" said Dennis. "What's the trouble?"
Jerry peered at them and rubbed his eyes,
"The Missus whaled me; then he chipped in and kicked the back off'm me, drat him!"
"What'd you do, Jerry?"
"Nothin' at all!" responded the boy defiantly. "The mate sent me down to clean his cabin, an' they didn't know I was there, an' the door was open. He says it's a hell of a note about Frenchy not bringin' that phonygraft, and it was the best idea ever was, and she says yes, maybe we'd better give the old son of a gun another taste of hot iron. He says no, there ain't no need of that, because we got the bulge on him now and he'll talk in a hurry, knowin' she's aboard, and it's all Bo'sun's fault for slippin' up and lettin' Frenchy slip up that way. Just then they heard me, and she whaled me and he kicked me up the ladder. Drat him! I wisht I was off'm this old ship!"
Jerry passed on forward, sniffling.
Tom Dennis stood very still. He felt Florence draw herself up; he caught a startled gasp from her lips; but he was thinking with a wild sickening surety, of what the skipper had said. Frenchy—and the phonograph!
There was the missing link. No use disguising the facts any longer; no use trying to cover up what was only too obvious! Frenchy—that was the assassin; and Ericksenhadbeen in partnership with him, there in Chicago! And Hathaway would talk now that Florence was aboard——
Tom Dennis shivered suddenly. "Come, dear!" he said in a strange voice. "Come below. I have something to tell you."
He felt that she was sobbing softly, and halted. "What's the matter, Florence?"
She only shook her head, and taking his arm accompanied him to the companionway. Dennis was alarmed by her attitude; upon reaching their own cabin she threw her arms about him, a sudden paroxysm of sobs shaking her whole body. Dennis could obtain no response to his queries for a moment, until the girl suddenly looked up into his eyes.
"I—I couldn't tell you before, Tom! I thought perhaps it had been the wreck, and all that," she said, brokenly. "But poor father—his feet were burned, and his arms—at least, I know now that the scars were of burns! You heard what Jerry said. And father's eyes are giving him a lot of trouble; sometimes he can't use them at all, and it seems to hurt him when they're open. I—I can't dare to think that anyone would have deliberately hurt him——"
"Good Lord!" broke from Dennis. "It's not credible! Yet, if Frenchy was my Chicago visitor—here, old girl, sit down! I've something to tell you. I can't quite face the meaning of it—yet it's bound to mean but one thing——"
He drew the wondering sobbing girl to a chair beside him, and for the first time told her of his strange assailant in Chicago on the night of their departure. He connected up the links—finding Ericksen in the man's compartment; the square suitcase and its contents—and now the remarks of Pontifex about that phonograph, as reported by the innocent Jerry.
As she listened, the apprehension and grief of Florence for the helpless and seemingly tortured father began to be absorbed in the deep significance of the entire affair. She sat in frowning thought, while Dennis drew from his memory the little things which at the time he had scarce noted, but which now seemed so laden with significance—even the strange unconcern of Pontifex over communicating with Miles Hathaway. At this last, Florence lifted her head.
"I know—the same thing struck me, Tom. I was talking about it with Mrs. Pontifex to-day; she had the air of discouraging me in the attempt. Why? Why don't they want us to communicate with poor father? It will be hard at best, because of his eyes; I'm going to make up an eyewash for him until we can reach a doctor. But why their attitude? Everything seemed so honest and so kindly at that meeting the other day! And when I kissed Mrs. Pontifex——"
"She blushed, by George!" snapped Dennis suddenly. "And anything that could make that woman blush—here, let me think! Jerry gave the whole game away to us. The clue lies in what the skipper said about your father talking now that you were aboard——"
He broke off abruptly, filled and lighted his pipe, and sat staring before him. Not for nothing had he followed the newspaper game. Not for nothing had he been one of the best rewrite men in Chicago! He had been trained in the business of making a whole cloth from scattered scraps.
"Got it! Listen here, Florence," he said suddenly. "Pontifex found your father, and either took him to a house, where those snapshots were made, or to this ship—no matter which. Face facts, now! All this goody-goody talk is bluff. Pontifex was busy trying to extort the secret of theSimpson'sposition from your father, so he sent Boatswain Joe to get you; and he sent that clever little assassin, Frenchy, to get this phonograph that's in my grip—why, we don't know. But for some reason he wanted it, and wanted it badly!
"Ericksen did not want me to accompany you. He called in Frenchy at the last minute to put me out of the way—and Frenchy meant murder. There's a salient fact! How did Boatswain Joe slip up, as Pontifex termed it? In not bringing you alone. They wanted you—alone! A second salient fact. Why? Pontifex has said it: in order to force your father to talk!"
"But Tom!" broke in Florence quickly. "Father can't talk!"
"All bluff. Pontifex can communicate with him, somehow. They simply didn't want us to do so."
"But that's why they wantedme! And then, my signature on that paper——"
"More bluff!" flung out Dennis. "They tortured your father—don't shrink from it—and he would not tell the secret. They got you aboard and sailed, knowing that for your sake, to get you out of their power, your father would give up anything. I'm a mere incident, an incumbrance. They're not hurrying. They want Frenchy to reach Unalaska first and come aboard there. I'd recognize him again, which would spoil their game at this juncture."
"They don't mean to land us there?" She spoke steadily, but her face was pale.
"I doubt it. They'll try to get rid of me there. They may take you and your father along, to be sure that they get the right position from him. The ultimate outcome would be probably of no danger to you—they'd sell the salvaged stuff to Japan or Canada or China, and would land you wherever they went. They might even keep the signed agreement—in part. They'd give you enough money to make it inadvisable for you to start any legal proceedings, as they have your agreement to the terms, and you'll never know how much they get for the salvage. You understand? If your father gives them the correct position of the wreck, you are possibly in no danger."
"And you, Tom?"
Dennis grinned. "They want me out of the way. They think I'll make trouble. Well, IknowI will! Don't you worry about me. They'll do nothing until Unalaska and the revenue cutter are left behind, see? And by that time, little Tommy will have spoiled their game."
"How?" demanded Florence, her eyes anxious.
"Don't know yet," said Dennis cheerfully. "If I——"
"Tom! What was it that Pontifex said to you about reading Dumas? Why, I I know just what they got that phonograph for—oh, I wish I'd known about it!"
"You do? What?"
"Don't you remember in one of the Dumas novels there was a paralytic, and they made him blink his eyelids twice for 'No' and once for 'Yes'? I was thinking about it only this afternoon, and meant to try it with father! And those phonograph records, with the alphabet and numerals on them—don't you see? Play a record and father would wink at the right letter of figure until he spelled out a word——"
"By George!" Dennis stared at the flushed and excited girl. "By George! You've hit it square on the head—and I never thought of it! We'll try it to-morrow——"
Florence leaned forward, colour glowing in her pale face, her eyes dilated by swift excitement and resolution, yet dominated by their strangely poised radiance. All her spirit shone in her eyes—all her heritage of soul, her heritage of iron nature, tempered and alloyed and refined to an almost dangerous degree by her womanhood. Tom Dennis gazed into her eyes and wondered, as he had wondered on that memorable afternoon when she had said: "We'll only win by daring; so we shall dare everything!"
"No, Tom!" she said firmly. "Not the phonograph! They must not know that we have it, or they'll know that we suspect their whole game! In the morning I'll corroborate your theory from father's lips—the way that Dumas' story did. We have two or three more days until we reach Unalaska. In that time don't dare give them any suspicion! Watch everything; but say nothing.
"Before we reach Unalaska we'll formulate a plan of action between us. They have bitterly wronged us; they have lied to us; they've tried to murder us. And we'll fight them! Do you agree?"
Tom Dennis laughed suddenly and kissed her on the lips.
"You bet!" he said deeply. "We'll fight!"
Close upon noon the following day, moon-faced Jerry was heading for the after cabins, broom in hand, with intent to sweep up the mess cabin. Manuel Mendez, who had the deck, playfully whipped out his sheath-knife, and pretended to dive for Jerry. With a howl of terror, the boy slashed the mate's shins with the broom-handle—a wild blow.
"Leave go o' me, you nigger!" he howled, as the hand of Mendez caught his collar.
"Who you call nigger? Me?" demanded Manuel Mendez angrily. "What you t'ink dis ship be, huh? You say 'sir' to de mate, queeck!"
One giant black hand encircling the boy's throat; Mendez laughed and choked him until Jerry's face was purple. Then, having heard the desired "sir", Mendez flung Jerry at the companionway which swallowed him from sight.
At the bottom of the ladder, Jerry perceived Captain Pontifex bearing his instruments and going above for the noon observation. Jerry sidled into the nearest cabin and hid. He knew that the Missus was up forward in the galley, safely engaged in getting dinner.
Thus it happened that when Florence went swiftly to the stern cabin, and Tom Dennis stood upon the companion ladder to give her warning of any approaching danger from above, neither of them knew that moon-faced Jerry was fearfully waiting and listening inside the cabin of Mendez, the door slightly ajar. And that cabin adjoined the stern cabin.
"Father—can you wink your eyelids once for 'yes' and twice for 'no'? Quickly!"
Florence stood before the immobile figure of her father, watching him with anxious desperate eyes. The eyes of Miles Hathaway winked—very slowly, very slightly, but very perceptibly. Was it chance or design?
"Have you given the position of the wreck to Captain Pontifex?" breathed the girl. Her father's eyes closed twice. A sudden glory shone in her face, as she realized that this was no accident—that she was communicating with her father at last!
"You heard all that passed at the meeting here," she hurried on. "Was he sincere in what he said? Does he mean to keep his promises to us?"
The eyelids of the paralytic fluttered twice.
"Have they harmed you?"
"Yes."
"Can we trust anyone aboard here?"
No answer. Evidently Hathaway was not sure upon this point.
"Have they any intentions of harming me?"
"Yes."
"They have! And Tom too?"
"Yes. Yes." Repeated, this time, manifestly for emphasis. The girl paled slightly.
"Will they harm us before we reach Unalaska?"
"No."
Tom Dennis began to whistle cheerily. Florence, who had filled her father's pipe, put it between his lips and held a match while he puffed. As she did so, the door behind her was flung open, and into the cabin came Tom, propelling before him the cabin boy Jerry.
"Heard everything you said, Florence," said Dennis, surveying the shrinking boy. "Now, Jerry, what d'you mean by spying on us? Who set you in there to listen?"
"Nobody." Jerry began to blubber. "But that nigger Mendez kicked me downstairs, and I seenhimcomin', and I ducked in there. I didn't mean to hear nothing honest! And I won't tell them, neither, if ye let me go. Don't whale me!"
"Lord, Jerry, I wouldn't hurt you!" said Dennis; but he frowned as he spoke. He looked at Florence and gestured helplessly. If the boy told—their game was done!
"Jerry," said the girl, suddenly stooping and kissing the gaping boy, "do you like Captain Pontifex?"
"No, I don't! I hate him! And if we ever get anywhere, I'm going to run away."
"He hates us, Jerry. Do you want to go away from this ship with us?
"You bet, ma'am. Can I?"
"If you don't say a word to anyone about what you just heard. If you do, Mr. Dennis and I will suffer, and you'll get no chance to run away."
"Cross m'heart, ma'am." And Jerry earnestly suited action to word. A sudden excitement shone in his eyes. "They've double-crossed you all the time. I know; I've heard 'em talk! They're goin' to give you to that man Frenchy, that used to be cook. I never seen him, but they talk about him lots."
"All right, Jerry," said Dennis hastily. "Beat it before the skipper comes back."
The boy fled. Dennis looked at the flushed hurt face of Florence.
"Give me—to that man!" she said faintly. "Oh! It—it's impossible——"
"Right, old girl—it's quite impossible." Dennis made a gesture of caution, as he heard the sound of steps from the passage. "You leave it to me, that's all. I'm sorry you heard that, Florence; but it'll be all right. Better take that pipe from your father, or we'll forget it. Eight bells just struck and we'd better run along to dinner."
The skipper entered, with a smiling nod and a twirl of his moustache.
"Unalaska day after to-morrow, if the wind hold," he announced, his deep-set eyes flitting from face to face as if seeking secrets there. "All's well?"
"All well and hungry, skipper." Dennis turned to the door. "Coming?"
"Not for five minutes. I want to jot down these figures and work out our position."
During the meal which ensued, Tom Dennis marvelled at the manner in which Florence maintained her cool poise, with never a token to indicate the terrific ordeal to which she had so lately been subjected. And little Jerry, his moon-face white and frightened, served the table with an occasional adoring glance at the girl; the danger from Jerry was palpably eliminated.
To dare risk further conversation with Miles Hathaway would be unadvisable, Dennis realized. Discussing the matter with Florence that afternoon, he found all traces of excitement gone from her; she was coolly alert, and much better poised than was Dennis himself. Fury was so deep and strong within him that it was difficult for him to restrain his passion; but Florence had become quite cool and dispassionate.
"It is quite clear, Tom," she said quietly, "that we must get father off this ship at Unalaska. If the revenue cutter is there, you had better interview the commander, tell exactly what has happened, and have father placed ashore. If the revenue cutter is not there, the port authorities——"
"Will probably be too slow to act," put in Dennis. "And there's another thing—this ship has diving equipment aboard, with all things necessary for the work in hand. I want to go after the wreck of theSimpson, Florence: I believe that Pontifex will be only too glad to set us all ashore at Unalaska provided he could get the location of that wreck."
"But he wouldn't trust father to give him the correct location. He'd hold us, or hold father, as hostages."
Dennis nodded, frowningly. After a moment he rose.
"Dear, please go to your father at once, Tell him that it is absolutely essential that he give Pontifex the correct location of that wreck. Tell him that I shall handle the entire matter in such a way that Pontifex will ultimately get his just desserts; but for the present it is necessary that Pontifex should not suspect us."
"And you, Tom? What are you going to do now?"
"I'm going to see the skipper—I think he's on deck. If your father consents to do as I request, please call us at once."
Dennis hurried out to the companion way, and ascended to the deck.
Pontifex was there, indeed—tall and cavernous, caressing his curled black moustache while he talked with Mr. Leman. Dennis approached them with his heartiest manner.
"Well, gentlemen, good news!" he said warmly. "Do you remember, Captain, mentioning Dumas to me when we came aboard? That gave us an idea, and I believe that Mrs. Dennis will be able to communicate with her father. In fact, I expect her to call us down there at any moment to get the location of that wreck. Pretty good, eh?"
Mr. Leman rubbed his broken nose. The skipper gave Dennis a sharp look, then forced a smile.
"Why, certainly, Mr. Dennis! Very glad indeed to hear it. The means?"
"By Captain Hathaway's winking his eyes in response to certain questions. Simple, if we'd only thought about it, eh? And, Captain, Mrs. Dennis and I both think that when we reach Unalaska she had better be put ashore there with her father. She's rather worried over his condition, and she'd be able to secure comforts ashore which can't be had here."
Pontifex nodded absently. His pallid features looked very uneasy.
"Then you'd go on with us?" he asked after a moment.
"Of course!" assented Dennis heartily. "Don't you want me?"
"You bet we do!" returned the skipper fervently, his face clearing. "We'll need every man aboard when the work begins."
"Good—then it's settled!" exclaimed Dennis. "When do we make Unimak Pass?"
"To-morrow night," spoke up Mr. Leman, and fell to discussing the weather.
Five minutes later Florence appeared on deck, smiled and nodded brightly as the two officers touched their caps, and approached them with well-assumed eagerness.
"I can talk with father!" she exclaimed as though the discovery were fresh. "Come, down, gentlemen! He knows exactly what I'm saying, Tom, and winks once for 'yes' and twice for 'no'! I asked if he'd give us the exact location of the wreck, and he said 'yes'; so I came to call you at once."
"Excellent, Mrs. Dennis! I congratulate you," exclaimed the skipper. "Mr. Leman cannot leave the deck. I'll call Mr. Mendez as we go down. Well, well, Mrs. Dennis! Your husband was just telling us of the method of communication. Quite ingenious, quite! By the way, have you seen Mrs. Pontifex?"
Mr. Leman, who entirely disregarded the conventional title of the lady, sang out in quick response:
"The Missus is up for'ard in the galley. Ahoy, Corny! Pass up the word for the Missus!"
So the word was "passed up", and the large figure of Mrs. Pontifex appeared near the try-works as Florence descended the companion ladder. With the Missus at the end of the procession, the others passed on into the stern cabin, the skipper knocking at the door of Manuel Mendezen routeand commanding his immediate presence.
"Best do this all shipshape," suggested the skipper, when they stood before and around the immobile figure of Miles Hathaway. "I'll get out a chart, Mrs. Dennis——"
Pontifex searched his chart locker and did not find the desired chart until Manuel Mendez appeared, smiling his eternal and monstrous grin. Then Pontifex produced a chart of the Aleutian Islands.
"Now, ma'am," he addressed Florence, "while I read off the figures to your poor old father, you stand by to watch for the answers. All ready? Good. Let's take up the latitude first—easier to determine the position that way. Now, is the position north of fifty-four?"
"No," returned Florence almost at once.
"Hm! That cuts out everything north of Dutch Harbour, eh? North of fifty-two?"
"No," answered Florence.
"Good enough, ma'am. Now let's take up the longitude. West from Greenwich?"
"Yes."
"Between one seventy-four and seventy-eight?"
"No."
"Between one seventy-eight and eighty?"
"Yes!" exclaimed Florence.
"Getting warm, eh?" Pontifex spoke eagerly, a tinge of red in his pale cheeks. "Ah! It's among that clump of islands south-east of Tanaga. Now, Mr. Hathaway, kindly follow my pencil from island to island with your eyes, this way——"
The skipper slowly passed the point of a pencil from one barren rock island to another. A swift cry from Florence checked him; holding his pencil, he gazed steadily at Miles Hathaway.
"Is this it?" he demanded, a sudden ring of steel in his tone. "This one—the most southerly of the rocks to the eastward of Kavalga?"
The gaze of one and all centred upon Miles Hathaway who for a moment met the level gaze of Pontifex with unmoving eyes. Then, slowly, Hathaway signified "Yes".
A deep breath filled the cabin; but the tense attitude of Pontifex did not change. He held his eyes steadily upon those of Hathaway. His voice came like a challenge, steely and commanding.
"Is that the correct position, Captain Hathaway—upon your word of honour?"
"Yes," signalled Hathaway immediately.
Captain Pontifex turned. He rolled up the chart and tossed it upon the table.
"Hathaway's word is as good as my own—and that meansgood," he said quietly. "Now, Mrs. Dennis, am I correct in believing that you wish to be set ashore with your father at Unalaska?"
"Yes." Florence looked at him, smiling. "I'll be sorry to miss the salvage work, Captain Pontifex, but I'd like to obtain medical aid for my father, and to care for him ashore in person. He's more important to me than any money, you understand?"
"Of course." And Pontifex nodded.
The Missus was watching him in unconcealed surprise, while Mendez had ceased entirely to smile. This was their first hint about setting anyone ashore. Pontifex caressed his moustache and glanced at them, his deep-set eyes ironic.
"Mrs. Dennis and Captain Hathaway shall be set ashore at Unalaska," he said. "Mr. Dennis goes with us as their representative, to take part in the work on theSimpson. I think that concludes our meeting."
Five minutes later, in the privacy of their own cabin, Florence faced Tom Dennis, her hands on his shoulders.
"Dear, I had hard work to make father consent," she said quietly. "But he yielded to my love and utter confidence in you. Now tell me—why did you do it? Do you really mean to go alone with these men, on this ship?"
Dennis filled his pipe, stooped to kiss her lips, then struck a match.
"I most certainly do, my dear. The chances are a thousand to one that the revenue cutter will not be in Unalaska Bay. In that event, you and your father will go ashore, while I shall sail with thePelican. You'll take my big grip ashore, containing that phonograph and records. By this means your father can tell his entire story to the proper authorities. That will take time, of course, and it will take time to summon the revenue cutter, even by wireless.