Captain Francis Newcombe, a bandage swathing his head from the tip of his nose upward, groped out with his hand for a glass that stood on the bedside table, succeeded only in upsetting it, and swore savagely under his breath. At the same moment, he heard the front door of his apartment open and close.
"Runnells!" he shouted irritably. "D'ye hear, Runnells? Come here!"
A footstep came hurriedly along the hall, and the door of the bedroom opened.
Paul Cremarre stood on the threshold.
"It is not Runnells," said the Frenchman, staring at the bed. "I used my key. I saw Runnells and another man go out a few minutes ago."
"You, Paul!" exclaimed Captain Francis Newcombe quickly. "I did not expect you to return from France until to-morrow. I thought Runnells had forgotten something and come back. That was the doctor with him. Runnells has gone out for supplies. They've only just brought me back from Cloverley's this morning, and the place here was pretty well cleaned out of necessities."
The Frenchman moved over to the bedside, and grasped Captain Francis Newcombe's hand.
"Monsieur," he said earnestly, "I am desolated to see you like this. How am I to tell you of my gratitude? How am I to tell you what I owe you? We would have been caught. In two or three more little minutes, Runnells and I would have beenpouf!"
"That seemed rather obvious," said Captain Francis Newcombe dryly.
"Bon Dieu!" ejaculated the Frenchman. "Yes! I heard from Runnells, of course—the whole story in code. There is only one man who would have done that. I, Paul Cremarre, will never forget it. Never! And I say again that I am desolated to see you like this. Runnells said your eyes were very badly injured."
"That is Runnells' lack of balance in the use of English," said the ex-captain of territorials. "There is nothing whatever the matter with myeyes. If I am blind for the moment, it is because my eyelids are kept shut by some damned medical method of torture, and because of this bandage. When I took a header into the broken windshield, I got a bit of a cut that beginning with the bridge of my nose had a go straight across on each side just under the eyebrows. They've made a bit of a fuss over it, wouldn't let me come home until now, and I must still be tucked up in bed, but—"
"It is more than you make out," said the Frenchman gravely. "I know that. But that your eyes are saved—that is luck!"
"Quite so!" Captain Francis Newcombe shrugged his shoulders. "And you?—speaking of luck."
"The best!" replied the Frenchman in a low, quick tone. "Père Mouche has had hisragoût, and afterwards another that was so hot that—would you believe it?—it melted the dishes. And, besides, he has had a stroke of good fortune in getting rid of some other stock, a lot of it, on the continent. There will be a nice bank account in a day or so—to-morrow, if you want any." His voice grew suddenly less buoyant. "But just the same, it is well that we are taking a holiday. It has caused a furor. The papers, the Earl, Scotland Yard—how they buzz! And the Prefecture more suspicious than ever! Your English journals are like spoiled children. They will not stop crying, and they are very bad tempered about it. This morning, for instance. I have one here. Shall I read to you what it says?"
"Good heavens—no!" expostulated Captain Francis Newcombe hastily. "Everybody from the Earl down to Runnells has read that stuff to me for a week! If you want to do anything that smacks of intelligence you can get me another drink in place of the one I knocked over when you came in—you know where the Scotch is; and if you want to do any reading see if there is any mail for me. I mentioned letters but the doctor said no. However, the doctor is gone, so look on the desk in the living room."
"All right," said the Frenchman, as he turned briskly away. "Un petit coupis decidedly in order this morning. I will have one with you."
He was back presently from his errand. He filled the glasses, and placed one in Captain Francis Newcombe's hand.
"Salut, mon capitaine!" he said. "Here's to the cash the little Père Mouche is getting ready for us—a fat, a very nice fat little dividend!"
"Good!" said the ex-captain of territorials. "How about the mail? Any letters?"
"I've got them here," Paul Cremarre answered. "There were only three."
"Well, what are they?" demanded Captain Francis Newcombe.
The Frenchman examined the first of the letters in his hand.
"A city letter from Hipplewaite, Jones & Simpkins, Solicitors—"
Captain Francis Newcombe chuckled.
"That's about a hen Runnells ran over a month or so ago. Extremely valuable fowl! Poultry show stock, and all that, you know. What has the price risen to now?"
Paul Cremarre tore the letter open.
"Two pounds, ten and six," he said.
"Still much too cheap!" grinned Captain Francis Newcombe. "The man is simply robbing himself. Chuck it away before Runnells sees it. He could have settled for a pound three weeks ago. What's next?"
The Frenchman examined another envelope.
"City letter again," he said. "From 'The Sabbath House.'"
"Ah, yes!" said Captain Francis Newcombe gravely. "Most worthy object. Gave 'em ten quid last month. A mission down in Whitechapel, you know. Elevation of the unelevated, and all that. Shocking conditions! I must see that your name goes on that list."
"Shall I tear it up?" drawled the Frenchman.
"Yes," said Captain Newcombe.
The Frenchman remained silent for a moment.
"Well?" prompted the ex-captain of territorials. "You said there were three."
"I have put the other on the table beside you," said the Frenchman. "It isintime. The stamp from America. The handwriting of a lady. You will read it yourself when you are able."
"Able!" echoed Captain Francis Newcombe, with sudden asperity. "I won't be able to do anything for another week, let alone read. Open it! You know damned well it's only from my ward in America. And since I'm going out there as soon as I'm fit again, I'm rather keen to know what her immediate plans are. She was going to a school friend's home for the summer. I've explained to you before that her mother did a rather big thing for me once, and I'm trying to repay the debt. Open it, and read it to me. There's nothing private about it."
"But, certainly!" agreed the Frenchman, as he opened the letter. "It is only that you are both young, and that the thought crossed my mind you—"
"Read the letter!" snapped Captain Francis Newcombe. "If there's any enclosure for her mother, you can lay that aside."
"There is no enclosure," returned the Frenchman good-humouredly. "Well, then, listen! I read:
The Corals,Manwa Island, Florida Keys,Tuesday, June 30th.
DEAR GUARDY:
You knew, of course, I was going to visit Dora Marlin and her father, Mr. Jonathan P. Marlin, this summer, so you won't be altogether surprised at the above address. You see, we came here a little sooner than I expected, so that your last letter, forwarded on from New York, has just reached me.
I am wild with delight to know that you have decided to come out to America for a visit. I showed your letter at once to Dora and Mr. Marlin, and they absolutely insist that you come here as their guest. You will, won't you? You old dear! You'll have to, else you won't see me—so there! You see, we're on an island in the Florida Keys, and it's ever so far from the mainland, and there's no other place on it to stay except with us. I wonder, I wonder if you'll know me? I'm not the little Polly I was, you know.
Oh, guardy, it's simply wonderful here! The house is really a castle, and it's built mostly of coral, and is so pretty; and the foliage is a dream—the whole island, and it's really an awfully big one, is just like a huge garden. And, too, it's just like a little world all of your own. The servants are mostly negroes, with pickaninnies running around, and they live in jolly little bungalows, ever and ever so many of them, that peep out of the trees at you everywhere you go. And then there is the aquarium. It's Mr. Marlin's hobby. I couldn't begin to describe it. I never knew such beautiful and wonderful and queer creatures existed in the sea.
Dora's a dear, of course. I'm sure you'll lose your heart to her at once. And I've already grown so fond of Mr. Marlin, and the more so, perhaps, because Dora is frightfully worried about him. I am afraid there is something very serious the matter with his mind, though a great deal of the time he appears to be quite normal. I don't understand it, of course, because it is all about the financial conditions in the world; but anyway—
Paul Cremarre stopped reading aloud abruptly. There was a moment of silence while his eyes swept swiftly on to the end of the paragraph.
"Well?" inquired Captain Francis Newcombe. "What's the matter? Have you lost your place?"
The Frenchman drew in his breath sharply.
"Bon Dieu!" he exclaimed excitedly. "Listen to this! It is the lamp of Aladdin! It is the Isle of Croesus! We are rich! It is superb! It is magnificent! Listen! I read again:
—he has a great sum of money in banknotes here; half a million dollars, he said. He showed it to me. It was hard to believe there was so much. Why, you could just make a little bundle of it and put it under your arm. I asked him why he had it here, and he patted it and smiled at me, and told me it was the only safe thing to do. And then he tried to explain a lot of things to me about money that I couldn't understand at all.
Paul Cremarre looked up, and waved the letter about jubilantly.
"Yes, yes!" he cried. "I am awake! See! I pinch myself! It is amazing! In banknotes! In American money!Thatis valuable, eh? And a little bundle that one could put under one's arm!"
Captain Francis Newcombe's lips were a straight line under the bandages.
"I'm afraid I don't get the point," he said coldly.
"The point!" Paul Cremarre's face was flushed now, his eyes burned with excitement. "But, sacre nom, the point is—a half million dollars in cash. And so easy! It is ours for the taking. The man is—ha, ha!—yes, I learned something in the war from the Americans—he is what they call a nut!" He tapped his forehead. "And from the nut we extract the kernel! Yes?"
"I think not!" said Captain Francis Newcombe evenly.
"Heh?" The Frenchman stared incredulously. "But it must be that you joke—a little joke of exquisite irony. Yes, of course; for what could be better—or suit us better? We were about to lay low for a while because it was becoming too hot for us on this side of the water—and, presto, like a gift of the gods, there immediately awaits us fortune on the other side!"
Captain Francis Newcombe suddenly thrust out a clenched hand toward the other.
"No!" he said in a low voice.
"Bon Dieu!" gasped the Frenchman helplessly. "But I do not understand."
"Then I'll try to make it plain," said Captain Francis Newcombe in level tones. "There are limits to what even I will do, and it is well over that limit here. To go there as a guest of—"
"Monsieur was a guest, I understand, of the Earl of Cloverley a few days ago," interrupted the Frenchman quickly.
"Yes!" said Captain Francis Newcombe tersely. "And the guest before that of many others. But I did not have a ward to consider upon whose reputation I was to trade, and which I would wreck. Do you understand that?"
"Damn!" said the Frenchman. "There is always a woman! Damn all women, I say!"
"You may damn them as much as you please," said Captain Francis Newcombe, a grim savagery in his voice; "but there'll be none of that sort of thing here. And you keep your hands off! Do you also understand that? There's going to be one decent thing in my life!" He stretched out his clenched hand again. "Curse these bandages! I wish I could see your face! But I tell you now that if any attempt is made to get that money I'll crush you with as little compunction as I would crush a snake. Isthatplain?"
"But, monsieur—monsieur!" protested the Frenchman. "That is enough! Why should you say such things to me? I am distressed. And it is not just. You asked me to read a letter, and I read it. That was not my fault. And surely it was but natural, what I said. Has it not been our business to do that sort of thing together? I did not know how you felt about this. But now that I know it is at an end. I have forgotten it, my friend. It is as though it had never been."
"All right, then!" said the ex-captain of territorials in a softer tone. "As you say, that ends it."
"Shall I go on with the letter?" asked the Frenchman pleasantly.
"No," said Captain Francis Newcombe. "Give it to me. I've had enough of it for now." He smiled suddenly, as the Frenchman placed the letter in his hand. "I'm afraid I'm a bit off colour this morning, Paul. Sorry! The trip down from Cloverley's has done me in a bit, and my eyes hurt like hell. I'd give a hundred pounds for a few good hours of sleep."
"Try, then," suggested the Frenchman. "I'll be where I can hear you if you want anything. I won't go out until Runnells gets back."
"Good enough!" agreed Captain Francis Newcombe; and then abruptly, as the Frenchman rose from his chair: "Speaking of Runnells, Paul—you willobligeme by saying nothing to him of the contents of this letter."
"I will say nothing to any one, let alone Runnells," replied the Frenchman quietly. "It is already forgotten. Call, if you want anything."
"I will," said Captain Francis Newcombe.
The Frenchman's footsteps died away in an outer room.
Captain Francis Newcombe's fingers tightened around the letter he held in his hand, crushed it, and carefully smoothed it out again. He lay there motionless then, his face turned away from the door, his lips thinned, his under jaw outthrust a little.
"Three years in the planting!" he muttered to himself. "It has ripened well! Very well! Paul—bah! What does it matter, after all, that he read the letter? I am not sure but that he has already outlived his usefulness—and Runnells too!" He thrust the letter suddenly underneath his pillow. "Damn the infernal pain!" he gritted between his teeth. "If I could only sleep for a bit—sleep—sleep!"
And for a time he tossed restlessly from side to side, and then presently he slept.
Runnells, in response to a demand from the bedroom, brought in the luncheon tray.
"You've had a rare whack of sleep," he said, as he laid the tray down on the table beside the bed.
"What time is it?" inquired Captain Francis Newcombe.
"Three o'clock," said Runnells. "Here, sit up a bit, and I'll bolster the pillows in behind you."
"Where's Paul?" asked the ex-captain of territorials.
Runnells did not answer immediately. In arranging the pillows he had found a letter. He looked at it coolly. It ought to be worth looking at if Captain Francis Newcombe kept it under his pillow.
"Well?" snapped the ex-captain of territorials.
Runnells placed the letter on the table within easy reach beside the tray, pulled the table a little closer, and sat down on the edge of the bed.
"He went out after I got back," said Runnells. "Said he'd sleep here to-night, that's all I know. This is a bit of stew."
Runnells, with one hand presented a forkful of meat to Captain Francis Newcombe's lips, and with the other hand possessed himself of the letter again.
Runnells read steadily now. He conveyed food to Captain Francis Newcombe's mouth mechanically.
"Damn it!" spluttered the ex-captain of territorials suddenly. "Do you take me for a boa constrictor? I can't bolt food as fast as that!"
Runnells' eyes were curiously, feverishly alight.
"Yesterday you said I went too slow," he mumbled.
"In a great many respects, Runnells," said Captain Francis Newcombe tartly, "you are an irritating, tactless ass. But not to be too hard on you, and especially in view of the last week, I have to admit you possess one redeeming feature that I am bound to give you credit for."
"What's that?" Runnells was at the end of the letter now. He stared at the bandaged face with eyes a little narrowed, and with lips that twisted in a strange, speculative smile.
"A fidelity of the same uninitiative quality that a dog has," said Captain Francis Newcombe, motioning for more to eat. "And in that sphere you're a success. I hope you'll always stick to it."
Runnells made no answer. His eyes were on the letter again—re-reading it.
The lunch proceeded in silence.
At its conclusion, Runnells stood up, slipped the letter behind the pillow again, and gathered the various dishes together on the tray.
"America, eh?" confided Runnells to himself, as he carried the tray from the room. "Sothat'sthe bit of all right, is it? And Paul don't know anything about it! And the captain don't know—I know! Half a million dollars! Strike me pink!"
It was a night of storm. The rain, wind driven, swept the decks in gusty, stinging sheets; the big liner rolled and pitched, disgruntled, in the heavy sea.
Within the smoking room at a table in the corner Captain Francis Newcombe turned from a companion who sat opposite to him to face a steward who had just arrived with a tray.
"How about this, steward?" he asked. "Is this weather going to delay our getting in? I understand that if we don't pass quarantine early enough they hold us up all night."
"So they do, sir," the steward answered. "But this isn't holding us up any, a bit nasty though it is. We'll be docked at New York by two o'clock to-morrow afternoon at the latest. Thank you, sir!" He pocketed a generous tip as he departed.
The young man at the opposite side of the table, dark-eyed, dark-haired, with fine, clean-cut features, a man of powerful physique, whose great breadth of shoulder was encased in an immaculate dinner jacket, lifted the glass the steward had just set before him.
"Here's how, captain!" he smiled.
"The same, Mr. Locke!" returned Captain Francis Newcombe cordially.
Howard Locke extracted a cigarette from his case, and lighted it.
"The end of as chummy a crossing as I've ever had," he said. "Thanks to you. And I've been lucky all round. Cleaned up well in London, and 'll get a pat on the back for it from dad—and a holiday, which, without throwing any bouquets at myself, I'll say I've earned. I think I'll do a bit of coast cruising in that little old fifty-footer of mine that I've filled your ear full of during the last few days. Wow! And not least of all my luck was Joyce introducing me to you at lunch that day in the club."
"It's very good of you to say so," said Captain Francis Newcombe.
"Good, nothing!" exclaimed the young American. "I mean it! You've made the trip for me. And now how about your plans? I know you're going on South somewhere, for you mentioned it the other day. But what about New York? You'll be a little while there, and I feel pleasurably responsible for the stranger in the strange land. The house is barred, for the family is away for the summer; but there are the clubs, and I'd like to put you up and show you around a bit."
Captain Francis Newcombe studied the young man's face for a moment—he smiled disarmingly as he did so. Howard Locke was the son of a man of great wealth, the head of a great financial house, and of a family whose social status left nothing to be desired—and America was the Land of Promise! But one could betooeager!
"I'd like to," he said heartily; "but I fancy I've still quite a little trip ahead of me, and I'm afraid I'm a bit overdue already. As you say, I mentioned that I was going South. To be precise, I'm going down Florida way—or do you call it up?—as the guest of a Mr. Marlin."
Howard Locke removed the cigarette from his lips.
"Marlin?" he repeated. "Not Jonathan P. Marlin, by any chance?"
Captain Francis Newcombe nodded.
"Whew!" The young American whistled softly under his breath.
Captain Francis Newcombe lifted his eyebrows inquiringly.
"You know him?" he asked.
"No," Locke answered. "Not personally. I know of him, of course. Everybody does. And I don't want to be nosey and butt in, and you can heave that glass at me by way of reply if you like, but how in the world do you happen to know him?"
Captain Francis Newcombe smiled.
"I don't," he said. "My ward, who has been over here at school for the past few years, has been a classmate of Miss Marlin, and she is spending part of the summer with them."
"Oh, I see!" Howard Locke tapped the end of his cigarette on the edge of an ash tray once or twice, and glanced in evident indecision at his companion.
"Go on!" invited Captain Francis Newcombe. "What is it?"
Howard Locke laughed a little awkwardly.
"Well, I don't know," he said. "Nothing very much. And I'm afraid it's not done, as you English put it, for me to say anything, since he is your prospective host; still, as you say you are not personally acquainted with him yourself, I think perhaps you ought to know just the same. I haven't anything definite to go on, no authoritative source of information, but it is rather generally understood that old Marlin's gone a bit queer in the head."
"Really!" ejaculated Captain Francis Newcombe. "Good lord! I had no idea of any such thing! And my ward's on this island of his in the Florida Keys, and—"
"There's nothing whatever to be alarmed about," said the young American hastily. "It's nothing like that. He's as harmless as you are, or as I am. It's only on one subject—money. I suppose he was one of the wealthiest men in America at the close of the war, and since then he's been wiped out."
"Wiped out?" Captain Francis echoed incredulously.
"Comparatively, of course," said Howard Locke. "I don't know how much he has got left—nobody does. It's been the talk of the financial district. There isn't a share of stock anywhere to be found standing in his name. He sold everything; and how much was used to cover losses, and how much remained to himself no one knows. You see, the last few years, to put it mildly, have been hell in a financial and business way. The foreign exchange situation has been a big factor in helping to play the devil with all sorts of holdings. Values have depreciated; the market has gone smash. Industries that were big dividend payers haven't been able to meet their overhead. You may not believe it, but hundreds and hundreds have taken their money out of the banks, and, insisting on being paid in American gold certificates, when they couldn't get the actual gold itself, have hoarded it in the safe deposit vaults. God knows why! Just instances the general panicky conditions everywhere, I suppose. The aftermath of the war! History repeating itself, so the writers on economics tell us. Small consolation! However! Marlin met with crash after crash. He lost millions. He's not a young man, you know, and it evidently got him finally in the shape of a monomania. Finance! You understand? He was on a dozen big directorates and his trouble began to show itself in the shape of an obsession that everything should be turned into cash, buildings, plants, everything—into American cash. Naturally he was quietly and unostentatiously dropped. Poor devil! Certainly, his losses were terrific. I don't know whether he's got anything left or not."
"By Jove!" said Captain Francis Newcombe gravely. "I'm glad you told me. Pretty rough that, I call it."
"Yes," said Locke. "It is! Damned rough! I think everybody was sorry for him. And so he's down there at this place of his now on an island in the Florida Keys, eh?"
"Yes," said Captain Francis Newcombe.
The young American selected another cigarette from his case, rolled it slowly between his fingers—and leaned suddenly across the table.
"Look here!" he said. "I've an idea. I'm going cruising somewhere—why not there? The Florida coast hits me down to the ground. How would you like to make the trip with me?"
Captain Francis Newcombe leaned back in his chair, and laughed a little.
"I'm afraid not," he said. "I—"
"Oh, come on, be a sport!" urged Howard Locke enthusiastically. "The more I think of it, the better I like it. I'll have good company on a cruise, and you'll enjoy it. And it's quite all right so far as my showing up there is concerned. It isn't as though I were foisting myself on their hospitality. The little old boat's my home; and, for that matter, I can drop you and sail solemnly away. You'll have the time of your life. What's the objection?"
"Time," said Captain Francis Newcombe. "It would take a long while, wouldn't it?"
"Well," said Howard Locke, "I wouldn't guarantee to get you there as fast as a train would, but what difference does a few days make? It isn't as though it were a business engagement you had to keep."
"No; that's so," acknowledged Captain Francis Newcombe. "And frankly I must admit it appeals to me; but"—he looked at his watch—"I don't know whether I can manage it or not. Anyway, I promise to sleep on it. It's after twelve, and time to turn in. What do you say?"
"That suits me," said Howard Locke, "so long as you promise to say 'yes' in the morning."
"We'll see," said Captain Francis Newcombe.
The two men rose from their chairs, and, crossing the room where several games of bridge were in progress, stepped out on the deck. And here, their respective cabins lying in different directions, they bade each other good-night.
But now Captain Francis Newcombe, despite the pitching of the ship and the general unpleasantness of the night, appeared to be in no hurry. He walked slowly. It was the lee side, and under the covered deck he was protected from the rain. He looked behind him. The young American, evidently in no mind for anything but the snugger shelter of his cabin, had disappeared. The deck was deserted.
The ex-captain of territorials stepped to the rail, and stared out into the murk, through which there showed, like pencilled streaks on a black background, the white, irregular shapes of the cresting waves. The howl of the wind, the boom and crash of the seas made thunderous tumult, conflict, turmoil. And he laughed. And spume, flying, struck his face. And he laughed again because a sort of fierce exaltation was upon him, and he found something akin in these wild, untramelled voices of the elements—a challenge, far-flung and savage, and contemptuous of all who would say them nay.
And then his eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and his fingers played a soft tattoo upon the dripping rail.
"I wonder!" said Captain Francis Newcombe to himself. "I wonder if it suits my book?"
His mind began to moil over the problem in a cold, unprejudiced, judicial way. Was the balance for or against the acceptance of the young American's offer? To arrive at Marlin's place in the company of a man of the standing of Howard Locke was an endorsation that spoke for itself. But he already had an unqualified endorsation. Polly supplied it. Still, he could not have too much of that sort of thing. Would, then, the man be in the way, a hindrance, a complication? He could not answer that off-hand, but it did not seem to be a vital point. What he proposed to do on Manwa Island in a general way he knew well enough; but just how he proposed to do it, and just how long he proposed to stay there, a week, or a month, or longer, only local conditions as he found them must decide.
He shrugged his shoulders suddenly. Neither Howard Locke nor any other man would make of himself a hindrance—hindrances were removed. But there was another point, an outstanding point. After Manwa Island there was—America. True, he had brought Runnells with him, while he had said good-bye to Paul Cremarre, who had departed for Paris, and thereafter for such destination as his fancy prompted, for the period, mutually agreed upon, of six months—but he, Captain Francis Newcombe, was not prepared to say when, or where, if ever, he intended to utilise, in the same manner as before, the services of either Runnells or the Frenchman again. Certainly not in America, if a lone hand promised better there! He proposed to play a lone hand at this Manwa Island. It might well be that he would continue to do so thereafter. And in America an intimacy with Howard Locke, such as this projected cruise offered, would help amazingly to spread and germinate the seed already sown by Polly Wickes. Polly Wickes was his private property!
Captain Francis Newcombe smiled confidentially at the angry waters.
"Yes," he said, "I think it is quite possible that he may be able topersuademe."
He turned abruptly away from the rail, making for his cabin, which was on the deck above and on the opposite side of the ship. And presently, halting in the lighted alleyway before his door, he turned the key in the lock and entered.
And then, just across the threshold, he stood for the fraction of a second like a man dazed—and the door, torn from his hand by a fierce gust of wind, slammed with a bang behind him. The cabin was on the windward side, the window was open, and outside the window, indistinct, shadowy, as though almost it might be an hallucination of the mind, a man's form suddenly loomed up. There was a flash, the roar of a revolver shot, muffled, almost drowned out in the thunder of the storm—and Captain Francis Newcombe lay flat upon the cabin floor.
The next instant he flung himself over beside the settee, and protected here from another shot, raised his head. The form had vanished from the window.
A cold fury seized upon the man. From his pocket he drew his own revolver, and covering the window as he backed swiftly for the door, wrenched the door open and made for the first egress to the deck. Too late, of course! The deck was deserted. He stood there, grim-faced, tight-lipped, straining his eyes up and down the length of the deck through the darkness, the rain beating into his face.
And then he began to run again—like a dog seeking scent. There were a dozen places up here where a man might hide—the juts of the superstructure, the great, grotesque, looming ventilators, the openings through to the other side of the deck. But he found nothing, no one—there was only the deserted deck, the drenching rain. And the howl of the wind metamorphosed itself into ironical shrieks.
Captain Francis Newcombe returned along the deck, and halted outside his cabin window. He examined it critically. It had been pried open from the outside—the marks were distinctly indented on the sill, as though a jimmy, or iron bar of some kind, had been used.
He stared at it, his jaws clamped. It was unpleasant. Some one on the ship had deliberately, premeditatively, attempted to murder him. There was something of hideous malignancy in it. To pry the window open, and wait there patiently in the storm for the sole purpose of ending a man's life! It hadn't succeeded because intuition, or, perhaps, better, an exaggerated instinct of self-preservation born of the years in which he had flaunted defiance of every law in the face of his fellow men, had prompted him, though taken unawares, to act even quicker than his assailant who lay in wait, and to fling himself instantly to the floor of the cabin.
Who was it? Why was it? Who, on board the ship, had any incentive, any reason, any cause to murder him? Save for Locke, the young American, he knew no one on board, barring Runnells, of course, except in the ordinary, casual way of shipboard acquaintanceship struck up since the ship had left Liverpool. It could not be any one of these—at least, not logically. And of them all, it certainly could not be Locke. The ship's company? Absurd! Runnells? Still more absurd! And so he had eliminatedeverybody, and yetsomebodyhad done it!
He began to work with the window. Reaching inside he drew the curtains carefully together, and then lowered the window itself. When he re-entered his room, even providing he were still being watched, he would not be exposed in the same way as a target again!
He stood there now in the rain, his face hard, with savage, drooping lines at the corners of his mouth. Was he being watched now? Was there a cat-and-mouse game in play? Well, two could play at that! He, too, could prowl about the ship. His bed held little of invitation for him!
He went to Runnells' room. The man was in bed asleep. That definitely disposed of Runnells!
He returned and made another circuit of the upper deck; and then, forward, by one of the open companionways, he descended to the deck below. His mind was in a strange state of turmoil. It was not physical fear. It was as though a host of haunting shapes were being marshalled against him, were rising up out of the past to disturb him, jeering at him, mocking him, plaguing him with sinister possibilities. The past was peopled with shapes, shapes that had lived in the world of Shadow Varne; shapes which might well be accused of this attempt to do away with him, could they but take tangible form, could their presence but be reconciled with the here and now, with this ship, with these damp, slippery decks, with the drive and sting of the rain, with the scream and howl of the wind, with the plunge and roll of the great liner, the buffeting of the waves—if they could but be reconciled withmaterialthings. He clenched his hands. He was not as a man who could search his memory in vain for one who owed him such a debt as this; it was, rather, that his memory became crowded and confused with thenumberthat came thronging in upon it, each vying with the others to shriek the loudest its boasted claim to the attempted retribution to-night.
He set his teeth. Where had he failed? When had he left ajar behind him the door of the past that allowed any one of these ghostly shapes to slip through upon his heels? Ghostly? There was little of the ghostly here! Hemusthave been recognised by some one on board the ship. It seemed incredible, impossible—but it was equally incontrovertible. Who? And what did it portend? To-night he had won the first hand, but—
Locke! He was standing beside the smoking room window. Locke was in there, his back turned, standing beside one of the bridge tables, watching a game. It was a little strange! He had parted with Locke out here on the deck—and Locke was going to his cabin to turn in.
For an instant Captain Francis Newcombe held there, his brows knitted in a perplexed frown. Howard Locke! It was preposterous; it would not hold water; it was childish—unless the young American were some one other than he pretended to be, and there wasn't a chance in a thousand of that! His mind worked swiftly now. Locke had been introduced to him at lunch in the club by a fellow member a few days before they had sailed. That certainly vouched for the man sufficiently, didn't it? Locke had volunteered the information that he had booked passage on this ship, and they had not met again until here on shipboard. If Locke was what he passed for, if he was of one of the best families of America, the son of a millionaire, a clever, hard-working and ambitious young business man, it was untenable to assume for an instant that he was a potential murderer. It was even laughable. There wasn't even that one chance in a thousand that he could be any other than he seemed, not a chance in a million, and yet—
"Chance," said Captain Francis Newcombe, "is the playground of fools. We will see!"
He turned and ran swiftly along the deck. A minute later he was standing before one of the two doors of the young American's suite. A little metal instrument was in his hand, but it went instantly back into his pocket—the door was not locked. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Locke had one of the best and most expensive reservations on the ship—a suite of two rooms and a private bath, but there was a separate door from each of these rooms to the passageway without, since, naturally, they were not always booked en suite. And the room he stood in now was the one Locke used for his sitting room, and always as the entrance to the suite itself.
Captain Francis Newcombe was quick in every movement now. He ran through to the other room—the bedroom—closing the connecting door behind him. He switched on the light, and turned at once to the door that gave here on the passageway. The key was in the lock, and the door was locked. He unlocked it. The next instant he had a portmanteau open and was delving into its contents. It contained nothing but clothing—shirts, collars, ties, underwear, and the like. He opened another, and still another with the same result. Papers! It was the man's papers that interested him.
He snarled a little savagely to himself. There was nothing for it then but the steamer trunk under the couch—and Locke might be back at any moment. He dragged out the trunk—and snarled again savagely. It was locked. He began to work with it now, swiftly, deftly, with the little steel picklock. It yielded finally, and he flung back the lid. Yes, this was what he wanted! On the top lay a leather despatch case. But this also was locked. Again Captain Francis Newcombe set to work—and presently was glancing through a mass of papers and documents that the despatch case had contained: letters from the father's firm to the son, signed by Locke senior; a letter of credit in substantial amount; an underwriting agreement with a London house for the floating of a huge issue of bonds, signed and sealed, the tangible evidence of young Locke's successful trip, of which he had spoken. Incontrovertible evidence that Howard Locke was no other than he appeared to be, and—
Captain Francis Newcombe sprang for the electric-light switch, and turned off the light. There was Locke now! The pound of the ship, the noise of the storm, had of course deadened any sound in the passageway, but he could hear the other at the sitting room door. There was no time to replace the despatch case and push the trunk back under the couch, let alone attempt to lock either one. The man was coming now—across the other room. Captain Francis Newcombe laid the despatch case silently down on the floor, opened the door as silently, stepped out into the passageway and ran noiselessly along it.
He reached the door of his own cabin. His excursion to Locke's cabin and the evidence of intrusion he had been forced to leave behind him had put an end to any more "prowling" on his part to-night. Locke would probably kick up a fuss. There would be a very strict search for "prowlers!" He snapped his jaws together viciously. That did not at all please him. He would very much prefer that the would-be assassin should have another opportunity of showing his hand, that the man would be inspired to make asecondattempt. He, Captain Francis Newcombe, would be a little better prepared this time!
He pushed open the door of his cabin cautiously—and for an instant stood motionless, a little back from the threshold, and at one side. There was always the possibility, remote though it might be, that while he had been out searching for the other, the man had slipped inside and, waiting, had made of the cabin a death trap which he, Captain Francis Newcombe, was now invited to enter. It was not likely. It would require a little more nerve than the firing of a shot through the window, and then running away. But, for all that, having failed the first time, the other might be moved to take what might possibly be considered more certain measures on the next attempt. And in that case—No; the cabin was empty! The light from the passageway, filtering in through the open door, showed that quite plainly.
Captain Francis Newcombe stepped inside, and, before closing the door, looked curiously over the woodwork near the door and on a line with the window. Yes, there it was! The writing on the wall! The bullet had splintered a piece of the wall panelling, and had embedded itself in the wall a little to the right of the door casing.
He closed and locked the door now, shutting out the light, and, with his revolver in his hand, sat down in the darkness, out of direct range himself, but where he could command the window. It was a bit futile. He was conscious of that. But there was always the possibility of the man's return, and there was no other possibility that promised any better—or, indeed, promised anything at all.
His mind began to weigh, and sift, and grope as through a maze, battling with the problem again. Not Locke! He was rather definitely prepared to set Locke apart from everybody else on board the ship, and say that it was not Locke. Who, then? Who had any—
He straightened up, suddenly even more alert. There was some one out in the passageway now—some one outside his door. There came a low, quick rap.
"Who's there?" demanded Captain Francis Newcombe sharply.
Locke's voice answered:
"It's Locke. May I come in?"
Captain Francis Newcombe crossed to the door, unlocked it, and flung it open.
"Hello!" ejaculated the young American, as the light from the passageway fell upon the other. "Not in bed, and in the dark! What's the idea? Why no light?"
"Because I fancy it's safer—in the dark," said Captain Francis Newcombe. "Come in."
"Safer!" Howard Locke stepped into the cabin, and closed the door behind him. "How safer? Say, look here! Some one's been turning my stateroom inside out—been going through my things."
"You're lucky!" said Captain Francis Newcombe tersely.
"Lucky!" echoed the young American quickly. "What do you mean?"
"That it wasn't anything worse," said Captain Francis Newcombe coolly. "Some one's been trying to put a bullet through me—only it went into the wall over there instead. Here, take a look!" He switched on the light. "See it—there by the door casing!"
"Good God!" exclaimed Locke. "Yes; I see it! When was this?"
"Shortly after I left you. As I opened the door here and stepped into the cabin, I was fired at through the window. And the window had been opened from the outside—there are marks on it—and whoever it was, was waiting for me."
"That's damned queer," said Howard Locke. "When I left you I went to my rooms, and everything was all right. I went back to the smoking room because I had left my cigarette case there. I stayed a few minutes watching several hands of bridge, and when I went back to my rooms again I found my steamer trunk open and a case of papers on the floor."
"Anything missing?" asked Captain Francis Newcombe.
"No; not so far as I know," Locke answered. "What do you think had better be done?"
"I think you had better switch that light off, and stand away from the line of the window."
The young American shook his head.
"No," he said. "It's hardly likely that the same game would be tried twice in the same night. Say, what do you make of it? It seems mighty queer that you and I should have been picked out for some swine's attentions! What should be done?"
"Whathaveyou done?"
"Nothing, so far," Locke replied. "I came here at once to tell you about it, and ask your advice. I suppose the commander ought to be told."
Captain Francis Newcombe sat down on the edge of his bunk.
"I can't see the good of it," he said slowly. "We're landing to-morrow. It would mean the shore police aboard, and no end of a fuss; and an almost certain delay, nobody allowed off the ship, and all that, you know. I can't see how it would get us anywhere. You haven't lost anything; and I—well, I'm still alive."
"That's true," said Locke. He was staring at the bullet hole in the wall. "And worst of all there'd be the reporters. Three-inch headlines! I'm not forthat! I agree with you. We'll say nothing."
Captain Francis Newcombe inspected Locke's back.
"How much of a crew do you carry on this fifty-footer of yours?" he inquired softly.
"Why not necessarily any one but the two of us and your man, if you'll come along." Howard Locke turned around suddenly to face the other. "Why?"
"Well," said Captain Francis Newcombe quietly, "under those conditions, as the two victims of to-night, we'd form a sort of mutual protective society—and perhaps, if the offer is still open, it would be the safest way for me to reach my destination. There wouldn't be any windows for any one to fire through."
Howard Locke lighted a cigarette.
"That's a go!" he said. "I'm very keen to make the trip with you. And if all this has decided it, I'm glad it's happened. That's fine! And now—what are you going to do for the rest of the night?"
"Why, I'm going to bed," said Captain Francis Newcombe casually; "and at the risk of appearing inhospitable, I should advise you to do likewise."
"Right!" agreed Locke. "There's nothing else to do." He stepped toward the door, but paused, staring at the bullet mark in the wall again.
"That bullet hole seems to fascinate you," smiled Captain Francis Newcombe.
"Yes," said Locke, as he opened the door. "I was thinking what a rotten thing it was to be fired at cold-bloodedly in the dark. Good-night!"
The door closed.
Captain Francis Newcombe did not go to bed. With the light out again, he sat there on the bunk.
Long minutes passed; they drifted into hours.
The man's figure became crouched, became a shape that lost human semblance, that was like unto some creature huddled in its lair; and the face was no longer human, for upon it was stamped the passions of hell; and the head became cocked curiously sideways in a strained attitude of attention, as though listening, listening, listening, always listening.
And there came a time when he spoke aloud, and called out hoarsely:
"Who's that? Who's whispering there? Who's calling Shadow Varne ... Shadow Varne ... Shadow Varne...."
And in answer the ship's bell struck the hour of dawn.