CHAPTER XXIV
Dusk was falling when the torpedo boat Watson turned her nose seaward and sped away from Old Point with all the vigor of her quadruple expansion engines. Topham had climbed on board half a minute before, and full speed ahead had been signalled to the engines as his foot had touched the deck.
Lieutenant Quentin, commander of the Watson, acknowledged his salute with due ceremony. “I have been instructed by telegraph to proceed to sea under your orders the moment you arrive, Mr. Topham,” he announced.
Topham bowed. “Very good, Mr. Quentin. Please run to the capes of the Chesapeake, keeping as far south as possible. Have your wireless ready for use as soon as we get outside the bay. Meanwhile I will go over the charts with you and lay a course.”
Down in the cabin he bent over a chart spread upon the table, and punched a small hole in it with the point of his pencil.
“The Southern Cross was here at 10 last night,” he said. “She was bound for New York, and was running presumably about twelve knots an hour.” He ruled a pencil line on the map and scaled off 220 miles along it. “She should be about here?” he decided, “at nine tonight. Twenty miles an hour would bring us to the same point at about the same hour. Therefore, Mr. Quentin, please make your course east-southeast, nothing south, as soon as we get to the capes.”
Quentin nodded and gave the orders. “Anything else, sir?” he questioned.
“Not just yet. Our errand is to find the Southern Cross and bring ashore one of her passengers. So, in good time, you can give orders to try to raise her by wireless. That’s about the only way outside of plain bull beck that we could possibly locate her tonight.”
“Right you are!” Ceremony was satisfied, and Quentin relaxed. “Say, Walter,” he exclaimed, “the Secretary must be in a horrible hurry to reach her. She’d be in New York day after tomorrow.”
“It’s the President and not the Secretary, and he is in a hurry indeed. I’m not at liberty to tell you why. The passenger—a lady—sent a wirelessashore last night, and the message reached the President this morning. The whole affair is to be kept a strict secret.”
“Of course. The lady’ll be expecting us, then?”
“I think not. I’m pretty sure not. But she’ll be glad to come, I think. She’s a newspaper woman—a Miss Lillian Byrd. You know her, don’t you?”
“Know her! I should say I did. Wasn’t I sweet on her once. Why! You old hypocrite, you know her yourself. By Jove! I’m remembering! You were the hardest hit of all the fellows—”
But Topham shook his head. “No! that’s over long ago,” he answered, soberly. “She turned me down very hard, and I—well, I’ve gotten over it. This isn’t a question of romance, you know. It’s serious—more serious than I can tell you.”
The torpedo boat heeled far over; then rolled back again. Quentin rose. “We’ve reached the capes, evidently,” he remarked. “I’ll go to the deck and take charge.” He glanced at the chart. “East-southeast a little east!” he repeated. “Make yourself comfortable, old man. I’ll notify you if anything turns up, or if the wireless man catches anything.”
But Topham shook his head. “No! I’ll come on deck, too,” he said.
Steadily the Watson thrashed eastward into the deepening night, not rising on the waves but cutting through them and getting the full benefit of their differential lift. Steadily, too, the wireless operator sent his call across the waters.
It was two hours before he got an answer. Then, as ordered, he sent word to Topham, and the latter hurried to his side.
“I’ve got the Southern Cross,” he announced.
“Good! Tell him who we are. Have him notify the captain that I wish to come aboard him, and ask for his position and course and speed.”
The operator’s fingers played over the key—the ridiculously exaggerated key of the wireless. Soon he stopped and noted the reply upon a blank sheet of paper.
Topham called a messenger and sent the note to Quentin, asking him to lay his course accordingly. Then he turned back to the wireless operator.
“Ask him whether Miss Lillian Byrd is on board?” he said.
Promptly came an affirmative answer.
“Please tell her that Commander Topham ofthe Navy will be alongside in about half an hour to take her ashore, and ask her to be ready for transfer. Tell the captain that Mr. Topham apologizes for the trouble he is giving, but that the matter is imperative.”
The operator tapped off the message. “The operator has gone to deliver them, sir,” he explained. “He’ll call again in a few minutes.”
But more than a few minutes chased themselves across the clock’s face before the Southern Cross again made herself heard. In fact, the “Light! Ho!” of the lookout at the bow of the Watson was sounding before her call came again.
For an instant the operator listened; then he snatched up his pencil and began to write. Topham, looking over his shoulder, read the words.
“Miss Byrd cannot be found. Was on board at nine o’clock. Count of Ouro Preto, another passenger, has also vanished. No trace of either found.”
“Good God! Ask him if they have no idea what has become of them!”
Again the operator wrote: “No trace of either can be found, but we suspect Ouro Preto carried girl off. His yacht has been following us all the way from Barbadoes. He sent a code wireless to itlast night. Saw her lights very close behind us an hour ago.”
In silent consternation Topham read the message. It confirmed his instant guess as to what had happened. To keep his secret Ouro Preto had snatched the girl from under the President’s very fingers. Just how he had managed it was not of import, except as concerned the welfare of the girl herself; and Topham was very sure by now that more important things were at stake than the fate even of Lillian Byrd.
What should he do? What should he do?
What could he do? In what quarter of the sea should he seek for the fleeing yacht?
Suddenly the operator began to write again. “Somebody’s breaking in,” he explained. “Not the Southern Cross; somebody else.” His fingers raced over the paper.
“Heard you talking,” ran the message. “This is the yacht Windbird. Ouro Preto just came aboard bringing Miss Byrd with him. We are due south of Southern Cross, going east. Will try to keep you advised. Can’t say much, or I may excite suspicion. Follow.—Rutile.”
“Heard you talking,” ran the message. “This is the yacht Windbird. Ouro Preto just came aboard bringing Miss Byrd with him. We are due south of Southern Cross, going east. Will try to keep you advised. Can’t say much, or I may excite suspicion. Follow.—Rutile.”