 Book 1 Chapter 5 of The Four Straglers, by Frank L. Packard. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. DEAR GARDY Captain Francis Newcomb, 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. "'Runnels,' he shouted irritably, "'dear here, Runnels, come here!' A footstep came hurriedly along the hall, and the door of the bedroom opened. Paul Cremar stood on the threshold. "'It's not, Runnels,' said the Frenchman, staring at the bed. "'I used my key. I saw Runnels and another man go out a few minutes ago.' "'You, Paul!' exclaimed Captain Francis Newcomb quickly. "'I did not expect you to return from France until to-morrow. I thought Runnels had forgotten something and come back. That was the doctor with him. Runnels has gone out for supplies. They've only just brought me back from Cloverleys this morning, and the place here was pretty well cleaned out of necessities.' The Frenchman moved over to the bedside and grasped Captain Francis Newcomb'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, Runnels and I would have been poof!' "'That seemed rather obvious,' said Captain Francis Newcomb dryly. "'Bendure!' ejaculated the Frenchman. "'Yes, I heard from Runnels. Of course. The whole story in code. There is only one man who would have done that. I, Paul Cremar, will never forget it. Never! And I say again that I am desolated to see you like this.' Runnels said your eyes were very badly injured.' "'That is Runnels' lack of balance in the use of English,' said the ex-Captain of Territorials. There is nothing whatever the matter with my eyes. 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 Newcomb shrugged his shoulders. "'And you, speaking of luck?' "'The best,' replied the Frenchman in a low quick tone. Per Moucher has had his ragout, 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—tomorrow, 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 Newcomb hastily. Everybody from the earl down to runnels 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 that 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 from 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. "'Om petit coup is 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 Newcomb's hand. "'Salut, mon Capitain,' he said. "'Here's to the cash the little Père Moucher 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 Cremar answered. "'There were only three.' "'Well, what are they?' demanded Captain Francis Newcomb. The Frenchman examined the first of the letters in his hand. A city letter from Hippleway Jones and Simkins, solicitors.' Captain Francis Newcomb chuckled. "'That's about a hen,' runnels ran over a month or so ago. "'Extremely valuable, foul, poultry-show stock. "'And all that, you know. What has the price risen to now?' Paul Cremar tore the letter open. "'Two pounds, ten and six,' he said. "'Still much too cheap,' grinned Captain Francis Newcomb. The man is simply robbing himself, chuck it away before runnels sees it. He could have settled for a pound three weeks ago. "'What's next?' The Frenchman examined another end below. "'City letter again,' he said, from the Sabbath House. "'Ah, yes,' said Captain Francis Newcomb gravely. Most were the object. Gave him 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 Newcomb. 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 is in team.' The stamp from America, the handwriting of a lady. You will read it yourself when you are able.' "'Able!' echoed Captain Francis Newcomb, 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 Newcomb. If there's any enclosure for her mother, you can lay that aside.' "'There is no enclosure,' returned the Frenchman good-humoredly. "'Well, then, listen,' I read. "'The Corals, Manoa Island, Florida Keys. Tuesday, June 30th.' "'Dear Guardi, 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, Guardi, 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. It's just like a huge garden. And, two, it's just like a little world all of your own. The servants are mostly Negroes, with Piccininis 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 Cremar 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 Newcomb, 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 Craces. We are rich. It is superb. It is magnificent. Listen, I read again. He has a great sum of money and bank notes 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 padded 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 Cremar looked up and waved the letter about jubilantly. Yes, yes, he cried. I am awake. See, I pinch myself. It is amazing, in bank notes, in American money. That is valuable, eh? And a little bundle that one could put under one's arm. Captain Francis Newcomb's lips were a straight line under the bandages. I'm afraid I don't get the point, he said coldly. The point, Paul Cremar's face was flushed now, his eyes burned with excitement. But, Sack, I know, the point is, a half million dollars in cash, and so easy. It is hours 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 Newcomb evenly. Ha! 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, they immediately awaits us fortune on the other side. Captain Francis Newcomb 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 Newcomb 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— Miss York was a guest, I understand, of the Earl of Cloverly a few days ago— interrupted the Frenchman quickly. Yes, said Captain Francis Newcomb 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, damned all women, I say. You may damn them as much as you please, said Captain Francis Newcomb, a grim savagery in his voice. But there'll be none of that sort of thing here. And you keep your hands off, till you also understand that there's going to be one decent thing in my life. He stretched out his clenched hand again. Cursed 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. Is that plain? 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 Newcomb. 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-color this morning, Paul. Sorry. The trip down from Cloverleys had 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 Runnels gets back. Good enough, agreed Captain Francis Newcomb, and then abruptly, as the Frenchman rose from his chair, speaking of Runnels, Paul, you will oblige me by saying nothing to him of the contents of this letter. I will say nothing to any one, let alone Runnels, replied the Frenchman quietly. It is all ready forgotten. Call if you want anything. I will, said Captain Francis Newcomb. The Frenchman's footsteps died away in an outer room. Captain Francis Newcomb'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, what does it matter, after all, that he read the letter. I am not sure but that he has already outlived his usefulness, and Runnels 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. Runnels, 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 Newcomb. Three o'clock, said Runnels. Here, sit up a bit, and I'll bolster the pillows in behind you. Where is Paul? asked the ex-Captain of Territorials. Runnels 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 Newcomb kept it under his pillow. Well, snapped the ex-Captain of Territorials. Runnels 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 Runnels. Said he'd sleep here tonight. That's all I know. This is a bit of stew. Runnels, with one hand, presented a fork full of meat to Captain Francis Newcomb's lips, and with the other hand, possessed himself of the letter again. Runnels read steadily now. He conveyed food to Captain Francis Newcomb'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. Runnels' eyes were curiously, feverishly alight. Yesterday you said I went too slow. He mumbled. In a great many respects, Runnels, said Captain Francis Newcomb 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? Runnels 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 Newcomb, motioning for more to eat. And in that sphere you're a success. I hope you'll always stick to it. Runnels made no answer. His eyes were on the letter again, rereading it. The lunch proceeded in silence. At its conclusion, Runnels stood up, slipped the letter behind the pillow again, and gathered the various dishes together on the tray. America, eh? confided Runnels to himself, as he carried the tray from the room. So that's the 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! 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 Newcomb turned from a companion who sat opposite 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 tomorrow 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 Newcomb cordially. Howard Locke extracted a cigarette from his case and lighted it. The end of his chumming 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 earful 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 Newcomb. Good! Nothing! exclaimed the young American. I mean it. You've made the trip for me. And 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 Newcomb 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 be too eager. 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 Newcomb nodded. Phew! the young American whistled softly under his breath. Captain Francis Newcomb 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 nosy 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 Newcomb 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 him. Oh, I see! Howard Locke tapped the end of his cigarette on the edge of an ashtray once or twice, and glanced in evident indecision at his companion. Go on, invited Captain Francis Newcomb. 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 Newcomb. Good Lord! I had no idea of any such thing, and my wards 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 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 un- ostentatiously 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 have 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— 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 promised 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 bad 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's 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 penciled 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 the sort of fierce exaltation was upon him. And he felt something akin in these wild, untrammeled 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 Newcomb 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 endorsement that spoke for itself. But he already had an unqualified endorsement. 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 offhand, but it did not seem to be a vital point. What he proposed to do on Manoa 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 Manoa Island there was America. True, he had brought runnels with him, while he had said good-bye to Paul Cremar, 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 Newcomb, was not prepared to say when or where, if ever, he intended to utilize, in the same manner as before, the services of either runnels or the Frenchman again. Certainly not in America, if a lone hand promised better there. He proposed to play a lone hand at this Manoa Island. It might be well 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 Wicks. Polly Wicks was his private property. Captain Francis Newcomb smiled confidentially at the angry waters. Yes, he said, I think it is quite possible that he may be able to persuade me. 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 alley way 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 a 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 Newcomb 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 Newcomb 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. Someone 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 runnels, of course, except in the ordinary, casual way, of ship-board 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. Runnels? Still more absurd. And so he had eliminated everybody, and yet somebody had 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 was 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 runnels' room. The man was in bed asleep. That definitely disposed of runnels. He returned and made another circuit of the upper deck, and then, forward, by one of the open companion ways, 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 marshaled 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 barn, 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 be but reconciled with material things. He clenched his hands. He was not 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 the number that 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 a jar 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. He must have been recognized by someone on board the ship. It seemed incredible, impossible, but it was equally incontrovertible. Who, and what did it portend? Tonight he had won the first hand. What? Lock! He was standing beside the smoking-room window. Lock 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 Lock out here on the deck, and Lock was going to his cabin to turn in. For an instant Captain Francis Newcomb held there, his brows knitted in a perplexed frown. Howard Lock! It was preposterous. It would not hold water. It was childish, unless the young American were someone other than he pretended to be. And there wasn't a chance in a thousand of that. His mind worked swiftly now. Lock had been introduced to him at lunch in the club a few days before they had sailed. That certainly vouched for the man sufficiently, didn't it? Lock had volunteered the information that he had booked passage on this ship, and they had not met again until here on shipboard. If Lock was what he passed for, if he was one of the best families of America, the son of a millionaire, a clever, hard-working and ambitious young businessman, 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 Newcomb, 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. Lock 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 on suite. And the room he stood in now was the one lock used for his sitting-room, and always as the entrance to the suite itself. Captain Francis Newcomb 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 it 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 port 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 lock 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. He yielded finally, and he flung back the lid. Yes, this was what he wanted. On the top lay a leather dispatch case. But this also was locked. Again Captain Francis Newcomb set to work, and presently was glancing through a mass of papers and documents that the dispatch case had contained, letters from the father's firm to the son, signed by Locke Sr., a letter of credit in substantial amount, an underwriting agreement with the 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, in controversial evidence that Howard Locke was no other than he appeared to be, and Captain Francis Newcomb 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 dispatch 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 Newcomb laid the dispatch 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 tonight. 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 a second attempt. He, Captain Francis Newcomb, 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 that 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 Newcomb, 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 Newcomb 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 paneling, 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 someone out in the passageway now, someone outside his door. There came a low, quick wrap. Who's there? demanded Captain Francis Newcomb sharply. Locke's voice answered. It's Locke. May I come in? Captain Francis Newcomb 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 Newcomb. Come in! Safer! Howard Locke stepped into the cabin, and closed the door behind him. How Safer! Say, look here! Someone's been turning my stateroom inside out, been going through my things. You're lucky, said Captain Francis Newcomb, tersely. Lucky! echoed the young American quickly. What do you mean? That it wasn't anything worse, said Captain Francis Newcomb coolly. Someone'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 Newcomb. 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 than 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? What have you 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 Newcomb sat down on the edge of his bunk. I can't see the good of it, he said slowly. We're landing tomorrow. 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 for that. I agree with you. We'll say nothing. Captain Francis Newcomb 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 Newcomb quietly, under those conditions, as the two victims of tonight, 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 anyone to fire through. Howard Locke lighted a cigarette. There'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 Newcomb 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 Newcomb. 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 Newcomb 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 Shadowvarn? Shadowvarn! Shadowvarn! And in answer the ship's bell struck the hour of dawn. End of Book 1 Chapter 6 Book 2 The Isle of Prey Chapter 1 of The Four Straglers by Frank L. Packard This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Spell of the Moonbeams It was a night of white moonlight, a languorous night. It was a night of impenetrable shadows, deep and black, and where light and shadow met and merged, the treetops were fringed against the sky in tracery, as delicate as a cameo. And there was a fragrant in the air, exotic, exquisite, the fragrance of growing things, of semi-tropical flowers and trees and shrubs. And very faint and soft there fell upon the ear the gentle lapping of the water on the shore, as though in her mother-tenderness nature was breathing a lullaby over her sea-cratele isle. On a veranda of great length and spacious width, moon-streaked where the light stole in through the row of ornamental columns that supported the roof and through the interstices of vine-covered lattice-work, checkering the floor in fanciful designs, a girl raised herself suddenly on her elbow from a reclining chair, and, reaching out her hand, laid it impulsively on that of another girl who sat in a chair beside her. Oh, Dora! she breathed. It's just like Fairyland. Dora Marlin smiled quietly. What a queer little creature you are, Polly, she said. You like it here, don't you? I love it, said Polly Wicks. Fairyland, Dora Marlin, repeated the word. Wouldn't it be wonderful if there were a real Fairyland, just like the stories they used to read to us as children? Polly Wicks nodded her head slowly. I suppose so, she said, but I never had any Fairystories read to me when I was a child, and so my Fairyland has always been one of my own, one of dreams. And this is Fairyland because it's so beautiful, and because being here doesn't seem as though one were living in the same world one was born in at all. You poor child, said Dora Marlin, softly. A land of dreams, then. Yes, I know. These nights are like that sometimes, aren't they? They make you dream any dream you want to have come true. And while you dream wide awake, you almost actually experience its fulfillment, then and there. And so it is nearly as good as a real Fairyland, isn't it? And anyway, Polly, you look like a really, truly Fairy yourself tonight. No, said Polly Wicks. You are the Fairy. Fairies aren't supposed to be dark. They have golden hair and blue eyes and… A wand, interrupted Dora Marlin with a mischievous little laugh. And if it weren't all just make-believe, and I was the Fairy, I'd wave my wand and have him appear instantly on the scene. But as it is, I'm afraid he won't come tonight after all, and it's getting late, and I think we'd better go to bed. And I'm sure he will come. And anyway, I couldn't go to bed, said Polly Wicks earnestly. And anyway, I couldn't go to sleep. Just think, Dora. I haven't seen him for nearly four years, and I'll have all the news and hear everything I want to know about Mother. He said they'd leave the mainland today, and it's only five hours across. I'm sure he'll still come. And besides, I'm certain I heard a motorboat a few minutes ago. Very likely, agreed Dora Marlin. But that was probably one of our own men, out somewhere around the island. It's very late now, and in half an hour it will be low tide, and they would hardly start out at all if they knew they wouldn't make manois by daylight. There are the reefs, and… The reefs are charted, said Polly Wicks decisively. I know he'll come. A little ripple of laughter came from Dora Marlin's chair. How old is Captain Newcombe, dear? She inquired naively. Don't be a beast, Dora, said Polly Wicks severely. He's very, very old. At least he was when I saw him last. When you weren't much more than fourteen, observed Dora Marlin judicially. And when you're fourteen, anybody over thirty is a regular Methuselah. I know I used to think when I was a child that Father was terribly, terribly old, much older than he seems today, when he really is an old man. And I used to wonder then how he lived so long. Polly Wicks' dark eyes grew serious. It doesn't apply to me, she said in a low tone. I wasn't ever a child. I was old when I was ten. I've told you all about myself, because I couldn't have come here with you if I hadn't. And you know why I am so eager and excited and so happy that Guardi is coming. I owe him everything in the world I've got, and he's been so good to mother. I, I don't know why. He said when I was older I would understand. And he's such a wonderful man himself, with such a splendid war record. Dora Marlin rose from her chair and placed her arm affectionately around her companion's shoulders. Yes, dear, she said gently, I know, I was only teasing. Then you wouldn't be Polly Wicks if you wanted to do anything else, then just sit here and wait until you were quite, quite sure that he wouldn't come to-night. But as I'm already sure he won't because it's so late, I am going to bed. You don't mind, do you, dear? I want to see a father's all right, too. Poor old dad. Dora! Polly Wicks was on her feet. Oh, Dora, I'm so selfish. I, I wish I could help. But I'm sure it's going to be all right. I don't think that specialist was right at all. How could he be? Mr. Marlin is such a dear. Dora Marlin turned her head away, and for a moment she did not speak. When she looked around again there was a bright quick smile on her lips. I am counting a lot on Captain Newcomes and Mr. Locke's visit, she said. I'm sure it will do Father Good. Good night, dear, and if they do come, telephone up to my room and I'll be down in a jiffy. Their rooms are all ready for them, but they're sure to be famished and— I'll do nothing of the sort, announced Polly Wicks. The idea of upsetting a household in the middle of the night. I'll send them back to their yacht. You won't do anything of the kind, said Dora Marlin. Yes, I will, said Polly Wicks. Well, he won't come any way, said Dora Marlin. Yes, he will. No, he won't. They both began to laugh. But I'll tell you what I'll do, said Polly Wicks. After he's gone I'll creep into bed with you and tell you all about it. Good night, dear. Good night, Polly Fairy, said Dora Marlin. Polly Wicks watched the white form weave itself in and out of the checkered spots of moonlight along the veranda and finally disappear inside the house. Then she threw herself down upon the reclining chair again. Her hands clasped behind her head and lay there, strangely alert, wide-eyed, staring out on the lawn. She was quite sure he would come, even yet, because when they had sent over to the mainland for the mail yesterday there had been a letter from him saying he would arrive some time today. How soft the night was. Would he be changed? Would he seem very different? Had what Dora said about the viewpoint from which age measures age been really true? And if it were, she was the one who would seem changed, from a little girl in pigtails to a woman, not a very old woman, but a woman. Would he know her, recognize her again? What a wonderful, glorious, dreamy night it was. Dreams, she was dreaming even now, dreaming wide awake, that she was here, a dream that supplanted the squalor of narrow, ill-lighted streets, of dark, creaking staircases, of lurking, hungry shapes, of stalking vise, of homes that were single, airless rooms, gaunt with poverty. A dream that supplanted all that for this, where there was only a world of beautiful things and where even the airs that whispered through the trees were balmy with some rare perfume that intoxicated the senses with untold joy. She startled herself with a sharp little cry. Pictures, memories, vivid, swift in succession, were flashing, unbidden, through her mind. A girl in ragged clothes, who sold flowers on the street corners, in the parks, a gutter snipe the London bobbies had called her so often that the term had lost any personal meaning, save that it classified the particular species of outcasts to which she had belonged. A room that was reached through the climbing of a smutty, dirty staircase in a tenement that moaned in its bitter fight against dissolution in common with its human occupants. A room that was scanty in its furnishings. Where a single cot-bed did service for two, and a stagnant odor of saltfish, was never absent. A woman that was grey-haired, sharp-faced, of language and actions, at times that challenged even the licence of whitechapel. But one who loved, too, the smells from the doors of pastry shops on the better streets that had made her cry because they had made her more hungry than ever. The leer of men when she had grown a few years older who thought a gutter snipe both defenceless and fair game. She had never been a child. Polly Wicks had turned in the reclining chair, and her face now was buried in the cushion. And then into her life had come, had come, this guardie. He did not leer at her, he was kind and courtly, like, like what she had thought a good father might have been, but she had not understood the cataclysmic bewildering and stupendous change that had then taken place in her life, and so she had asked her mother. She had always remembered the answer, she always would. Never you mind, dearie, Mrs. Wicks had said, What's what is what? He's a gentleman, is Captain Newcomb, a kind, rich gentleman, top all he is, and if he's a going to adopt you, I ain't going to have to worry any more about what's going into my mouth, and though I ain't got religion, I says, as I says to him when he asks me, Thank God, I says, and if we're going to be separated for a few years, dearie, why, it's a sacrifice as both of us has got to mic for each other. They had been separated for nearly four years. As fourteen understood it, she had understood that she was to be taught to live in a different world, to acquire the viewpoints of a different station in life, in order that she might fit herself to take her place in that world and that station, where her guardian lived and moved. Today she understood this in a much more mature way, and she had tried to do her best, but she could never forget the old life, no matter how completely severed she might be from it, or how far from it she might be removed, even in a physical sense. Though gradually she was conscious, the past had become less real, less poignant, and more like some dream that came at times and lingered hauntingly in her memory. The hardest part of it all had been the separation from her mother, but she would see her mother soon now, for Captain Newcomb had promised that she should go back to England when her education was finished in America, and her education was finished now, the last term was behind her. Four years, her mother, even if that separation had seemed necessary and essential to her guardian, how wonderful and dear he had been even in that respect, how happy he had made them both. Indeed, her greatest happiness came from the knowledge that her mother, since those four years began, had removed from the squalor and distress that she had previously known all her life, and had lived since then in comfort and ease. Her mother could not read or write, of course, but Polly Wicks caught her breath in a little quick half sob. Could not read or write. It seemed to mean so much to visualize so sharply that other world, to bring the odor of saltfish, the nauseous smell of guttering tallow-candles. No, no, that was all long gone now, gone forever, for both her mother and herself. What did it matter if her mother could not read or write? It had not mattered. Even here a guardian had filled the breach, written the letters that her mother had dictated, and read to her mother the letters that she, Polly, sent in her guardian's care, and her mother had told her how happy she was, and how comfortable in a cozy little home on a pretty little street in the suburbs. Was it any wonder that she was beside herself with glad excitement tonight, when at any moment now the one person in all the world who had been so good to her, to whom she owed a debt of gratitude that she could never even be able to express, much less repay, would actually really be here? For he would come. She was sure of it. After all, it wasn't so very late, and she rose suddenly from the reclining chair, her heart pounding in quick and excited throbs, and ran lightly to the edge of the veranda. He was here now. She had heard a footstep. She could not have been mistaken. It was as though someone had stepped on loose gravel. She peered over the balustrade, and her forehead puckered in a perplexed frown. There wasn't any one in sight, and there wasn't any gravel on which a footstep could have crunched. All around the house in this direction there was only the soft velvet suede of the beautifully kept lawn. The driveway was at the other side of the house. She had forgotten that, and yet it did not seem possible she could have been mistaken. Imagination, fancy, could hardly have reproduced so perfect an imitation of such a sound. It was very strange. It was very strange that she should have no, she hadn't been mistaken. She had heard a footstep, but it had come from under the veranda, and someone was there now. She leaned farther out over the balustrade, and stared with widened eyes at a movement in the hedge of tall, flowering bush that grew below her along the veranda's length. A low rustle came now to her ears. Sheltered by the hedge, someone was creeping cautiously, stealthily along there under the veranda. Her hands tightened on the balustrade. What did it mean? No good, that was certain. She was afraid, and suddenly the peace and quietness and serenity of the night was gone. She was afraid, and it had always seemed so safe here on this wonderful little island, so free from intrusion. There was something snake-like in the way those bushes moved. She watched them now, fascinated. Something bad her run into the house and cry out an alarm. Something held her there, clinging to the balustrade. Her eyes fixed on that spot below her, just a few yards along from where she stood. She could make out a figure now, the figure of a man crawling warily out through the hedge toward the lawn. And then instinctively she caught her hand to her lips, to smother an involuntary cry, and drew quickly back from the edge of the balustrade. The figure was in plain sight now on the lawn in the moonlight. The figure in a long dressing-gown. A figure without hat, whose silver hair caught the sheen of the soft light and seemed somehow to give the suggestion of ghost-like whiteness to the thin strained face beneath. It was Mr. Marlin. For a moment Polly watched the other as he made his way across the lawn in a diagonal direction toward the grove of trees that surrounded the house. Fear was gone now, supplanted by a wave of pity. Poor Mr. Marlin, the specialist had been right. Of course he had been right. She had never doubted it, nor had Dora. What she had said to Dora had been said out of sympathy and love. They both understood that. It helped a little to keep up Dora's courage. It kept hope alive. Mr. Marlin was so kindly, so lovable and good. But he was an incurable monomaniac, and now he was out here on the lawn in the middle of the night in his dressing-gown. What was it that he was after? Why had he stolen out from the house in such an extraordinarily surreptitious way? She turned and ran softly along the veranda, and down the steps to the lawn, and stood still again, watching. There was no need of getting Dora out of bed, because in any case Mr. Marlin could certainly come to no harm. And besides, she, Polly, could tell Dora all about it in the morning. But, that apart, she was not quite certain what she ought to do. The strange draped figure of the old man had disappeared among the trees now, apparently having taken the path that led to the shore. Mechanically she started forward, half running, then slowed her pace almost immediately to a hesitating walk. Had she at all any right to spy on Mr. Marlin, it was not as though any harm could come to him, or that he, and then, with a low quick cry, her eyes wide, Polly wick stood motionless in the center of the lawn. Captain Francis Newcomb, permitted a flicker to cross his lips. It was a new experience for Runnels, this playing at Sailor Man, and Runnels had earned ungrudging praise from Locke all the way down from New York. Runnels had taken to the job even as a child takes to a new toy. Well, so much the better! Runnels and Locke had hit it off together from the start. Again, so much the better. He lit a cigarette and stared shoreward along the dock. Manwa Island. Well, in the moonlight, at least, it was a place of astounding beauty. And if its appearance was any criterion of its material worth, it was a—he laughed softly and languidly exhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke. There was allure about the place, or was it the moonlight that, stealing with dreamy treachery upon the senses, carried one away to a land of make-believe? That stretch of sand there, like a girdle between sea and shore, as fleecey as driven snow. The restless shimmer of the moonbeams on the water, like the play of clustered diamonds in a platinum setting. The trees and open spaces etched against myriad stars. The smell of semi-tropical growing things, just pure fragrance that made the nostrils greedy with insatiable desire. He drew his hand suddenly across his eyes. What a night! he exclaimed aloud. It's like the eyes and the lips of a dream-woman, like a goblet of wine of the vintage of gods. No song of the sirens could compare with this. I'm going ashore, Locke. What do you say? Locke looked up with a grunt as he swabbed his arms with a piece of waste. I'm done in with this damned engine. He said irritably. It's too late to go ashore. They'll all be asleep. I'm not going to ring the doorbell, said Captain Francis Newcomb pleasantly. I'm simply going to stroll in paradise. You don't mind, do you? Go to it, said Locke. I'm going to bed. Right, said Captain Francis Newcomb. He turned and walked shoreward along the dock. Over his shoulder he saw Reynolds pause in the act of coiling rope to stare after him. And again an ironic little flicker crossed his lips. Reynolds was no doubt prompted to call out and ask what this midnight excursion was all about. But Reynolds in the eyes of Howard Locke was a valet, and Reynolds must therefore be dumb. Reynolds on occasions knew his place. He nodded in a sort of self-commandatory fashion to himself. As, reaching the shore, he started forward along a roadway that opened through the trees. He was well satisfied with his decision to bring Reynolds along on the trip. Captain Francis Newcomb and man looked well, sounded well, and was well. Since Reynolds, for once in his life, even though it was due to no moral regeneration on the part of Reynolds, but due entirely to Reynolds' belief that he was on an innocent holiday, could be made exceedingly useful in bolstering up his master's social standing without bagging any of the game. Blessed is he who expects little, murmured Captain Francis Newcomb softly to himself, for he shall receive still less. He paused abruptly and stared ahead of him. Curious rode this, like a great archway of trees, and all moon-flecked underfoot. Where did it lead? To the house, probably. This was Manoa Island, the home of the mad millionaire. Queer freak of nature, these Florida keys, if what he had been able to read up about them was true. Almost a continuous bow of islands, some fruitful, some barren, some big, some small. Such a heterogeneous mess. Stretching along off the coast, some near, some far, for two hundred miles. Nothing but rocks on one, tropical fruits and verdure and profusion on another. Well, the mad millionaire, if the night revealed anything, had picked the gem of them all. He walked on again. The road wound torturously through what appeared to be a glade of great extent. It seemed to becken, to lure, to intrigue him the farther he went, to promise something around each moon-flecked turning. He laughed aloud softly. Promised what? Where was he going? Why was he here, sure, at all? Was it possible that he had no ulterior motive in this stroll, that for once the sheer beauty of anything held him in thrall? Well, even so, it at least afforded him a laugh at himself, then. This road, for instance, was like an enchanted pathway, and there was magic in the night. Or was it Polly? Captain Francis Newcomb shook his head. Hardly, not at this hour, thanks to the engine trouble that had delayed them, she would long since have given up expecting him to-night, even though he had written her that he would be here. The house, then. A surreptitious inspection. An entry, even? There were half a million dollars there. Again he shook his head. He was not so great a fool as to invite disaster. Tomorrow, and for days thereafter, he would be an inmate of the house, when he would have opportunities of that nature without number, and without entailing any risk or suspicion, and time was no object. He smiled complacently to himself. Things were shaping up very well, very well indeed. The seed so carefully planted years ago was to bear fruit at last. The greatest coup of his life was just within his grasp. And, if he were not utterly astray, that very coup in itself should prove but the stepping-stone to still greater ones. Polly, yes, quite true. The future depended very materially upon Polly. How amenable would she be to influence, granting always that the said influence be delicately and tactfully enough applied? He fell to whistling very softly under his breath. He had plans for Polly. And if they matured, the future looked very bright for himself. He wondered what she was like, particularly as to character and disposition. Was she affectionate, romantic? What? A great deal, a very great deal, depended on that. Not in the present instance. Polly had fully served her purpose in so far as a certain half-million dollars in cash was concerned, and being innocent of any connivance must remain so, but thereafter. England was an exploited field. It had become dangerous. The net there was drawing in. Oh, yes, he had all that in mind on the day he had first sent Polly to America. But only in a general way then, while today it had become concrete. Locke would make a most admirable open sesame to the new land, if Locke married Polly. Polly, as Mrs. Locke, would step at once into a social sphere than which there was no higher, or wealthier, and if so facto, Captain Francis Newcomb would do likewise. And given a half million as stake money, Captain Francis Newcomb, if he knew Captain Francis Newcomb at all, would not fail in his opportunities. He had expected Polly in due course to make a place for herself in social America. That was what he had paid money for. But Howard Locke was a piece of Locke. Locke conserved time. Locke opened the safety vault of possibilities immediately. He frowned suddenly. Suppose Polly did not prove amenable. Nonsense. Why shouldn't she, if the man weren't flung at her head? Locke was the kind of chap a girl ought to like, and all girls were more or less romantic, and the element of romance had just the right spice to it here. The guardian she has not seen in years, who was accompanied by a young man, who, from any standpoint, whether of looks, physique, manner, or position, would measure up to the most exacting of young ladies' ideals, and to say nothing of the magic spells that seemed to have their very home in this garden aisle, a veritable Woolworth's Bower. There would be other moonlight nights. Bah! There was nothing to it, save to put a few minor obstacles in the way of the turtle doves. Where the devil did this road lead to? Well, no matter. It was like a tunnel, dreamy black with its walls of leaves, dreamy with its sweet-smelling odours. In itself it was well worth while. It continued to invite him, and he accepted the invitation. His thoughts roved farther afield now. Locke, the trip down on the fifty-foot telophah, not an incident to mar the days, nothing since the night that shot had been fired on shipboard through his cabin window. His face for a moment grew dark, then cleared again. If as through the hours thereafter, when he had sat there in the cabin, it had seemed as though the shot had come from some ghostly visitor out of the past. There was no reason now why it should bother him further. For, granting such a diagnosis as true, Locke and the telophah had thrown even so acute a stalker as a supernatural spirit off the trail. As a matter of fact it had probably been some maniacal or drug-crazed idiot running for the moment amuck. Tonight, with these soft whispering airs around him, and serenity and loveliness everywhere, in contrast with that night of storm, the incident did not seem so virulent a thing anyway. It seemed to be smoothed over, to be relegated definitely to where it belonged, to the realm of things ended and done with. Certainly, since that night nothing had happened. And yet? Now his lips tightened. It was unfortunate he had not caught the man. He would have liked to have seen the other's face, to have exchanged memory with memory, and to have slammed forever shut that particular door of the bygone days if by any chance he found he had been careless enough to have left one in passing a jar. He swore sharply under his breath, but the next moment shrugged his shoulders. The incident was too immeasurably far removed from Manhua Island to allow it to intrude itself upon him now. Why think of things such as that, when the very night itself here, with its langer, its beauty, and, yes, again, its magic, sought to bring to the senses the gift of delightful repose and contentment. When the— He stood suddenly still, and in sheer amazement rubbed his eyes. He had come to the end of the tree-arched road, and it seemed as though he gazed now on the imaginative painting of a master genius, daring, bold in its conception, exquisite in its execution. Either that, or there was magic in the night, and he had been transported bodily through enchantment into the very land of the Arabian Knights. A few yards away he faced what looked in the moonlight like a great marble balustrade, and rising above this, painted into a hue of softest white against the night, towered what might well have been a Caliph's palace. It stretched away in lines unusual in their beauty and design, columns above the balustrade, little domes like minarets against the skyline, quaint lattice windows, and the effect of the whole was that of a mirage on a sea of emerald green, for sweeping away from the balustrade wondrous in its color under the moonlight was a wide expanse of lawn, level unbroken until the eye met again the horizon rim beyond the wall of encircling trees, a wall of inky blackness. He moved forward out onto the lawn, and as suddenly halted again, as there seemed to float into his line of vision, from around the corner of the balustrade, like some nymph of the moonlight, the slim graceful figure of a girl in white, clinging draperies whose clustering masses of dark hair crowned a face that in the soft light was amazingly beautiful, and he caught his breath as he gazed, and the girl, with a low cry, stood still and then came running toward him. Oh, guardie, guardie, guardie! she cried. I knew you'd come. I knew it! It was Polly's voice. It hadn't changed. Was the nymph Polly? She was running with both hands outstretched. He caught them in his own as she came up to him, and stared into her face almost unbelievingly. Polly! This wasn't Polly. Polly's photographs were of a very pretty girl. This girl was glorious. She stirred the pulses. Damn it, she made the blood leap. She hung back now a little shyly, the color coming and going in her face. He laughed. He meant it to be a laugh of one entirely in command, both of himself and the situation. But it sounded in his ears as a laugh forced, unnatural, a poor effort to cover a suddenly routed composure. And is this all the welcome I get? he demanded. He drew her closer to him. Gad, why not take his rights? She was worth it. She held up her cheek demurely. I—I wasn't quite sure, she said coily. One's deportment with one's guardian wasn't in the school curriculum, you know, guardie. Then I should have been more particular in my selection of the school, he said. It was strange, unaccountable. His voice seemed to rasp. He kissed her, then held her off at arm's length. Polly! This bewitching creature was Polly. How the color came and fled, and something glistened in the great dark eyes, like the dew glistening in the morning sunlight. Oh, guardie! she murmured. It's so good to see you. You waited up for me, Polly? he asked. Yes, she answered. Dora was sure you wouldn't come to-night, because it was so late, and on account of it being low tide. But I was equally sure you would. Of course I would, said Captain Francis Newcomb glibly. And I'm here. We're just in. I was afraid it was hopelessly late. But I didn't want to disappoint you, in case you might still be clinging to what must have seemed a forlorn hope, and so I came ashore on the chance. Guardie! she said delightedly. You're the only guardie in the world. But what happened? You were to have left the mainland today, and it's only five hours across. You'll have to ask Locke, he smiled, that is, as to details, when he's in a better humor. In a general way, however, the engine broke down. We've been since one o'clock this afternoon getting over. Oh! she exclaimed. What perfectly wretched Locke! And where's Mr. Locke now? And, no, first you must tell me about Mother. Is she changed any? Is she well and quite quite happy? And does she like her home? Is it pretty? And how? Good heavens, Polly! expostulated Captain Francis Newcomb with assumed helplessness. What a volley! But his mind was at work swiftly, coldly, judicially. To preface his visit with the announcement of Mrs. Wicks untimely, or was it timely, and would create an atmosphere that would not at all harmonize with his plans. Polly, in mourning and retirement, Locke, impossible. Nor did it suit him to explain that Mrs. Wicks was not her mother. He was not yet sure when that particular piece of information might best be used to advantage. And so Captain Francis Newcomb laughed disengagingly. I can't possibly answer all those questions tonight. We'd be here until daylight. The mother's quite all right, Polly. Quite all right. You can pump me dry tomorrow. Oh! I'm so glad and so happy, she cried. She clapped her hands together. All right, tomorrow. We'll talk all day long. Well then, about Mr. Locke. Where is he? And how did you come to make such a trip? You know, you just wrote that you were coming down from New York on his yacht. Who is he? Tell me about him. Locke! Dammit! The girl was incredibly beautiful. The figure of a young goddess. What hair! Those lips! Fool! What was the matter with him? Polly was only a tool to be used, not to turn his head just because she had proved to be a bit of a feminine wonder. Fool! The downfall of every outstanding figure in his profession had been traceable to a woman. It was a police axiom. It did not apply to Shadow Varn. A girl. Bah! The world was full of them. And yet his hand at his side clenched while his lips smiled. That's something else for tomorrow, he said. You will meet him then. And what was it he had said to himself a little while ago about slight obstacles in the way of the turtle doves? I hope you'll like him, though I have an idea that perhaps you won't. Why won't I? demanded Polly instantly. Well, I don't know. Upon my word I don't, said Captain Francis Newcomb, with a quizzical grin. He certainly isn't strikingly handsome, and I have an idea he's anything but a lady's man. Though not altogether a bad sword in spite of that, you know. Oh! said Polly Wicks, with a little pout that might have meant anything. Well, who is he then, and where did you meet him? I met him at the club in London, and we chummed up on the way over. It's quite simple. He was off on a holiday with no choice as to where he went, whereas I wanted to come here. So he came down in his motor-cruiser. As to who he is, he's just young Howard Locke, the son of Howard Locke Sr., the American financier. Oh! said Polly Wicks again. What a ravishing little pout! Where had the girl learned the trick? Was it a trick? Those eyes were wonderfully frank, steady, ingenuous, wonderfully deep, and self-reliant. He wondered if he looked old in those eyes. Young Locke, full again. Go on, tempt the gods, ask her if thirty-three fell within her own category of youth, or— Don't make a sound! she cautioned suddenly. Quick, here! He found himself obedient to the pressure on his arm, standing back again within the shadows of the tree-arched road. What is it, Polly? he asked in surprise. Look! she whispered, and pointed out across the lawn. A figure was emerging from the trees some hundred yards away, and in the open now began to approach the house. Captain Francis Newcomb stared. It was a bare-headed, white-haired old man, in a dressing-gown that reached almost to his heels. The man walked quickly, but with a queer, bird-like movement of his head, which he cocked from side to side at almost every step, darting furtive glances in all directions around him. Captain Francis Newcomb felt the girl's hand tighten in a tense grip on his arm. Rather curious this, the figure was making for that hedge of bushes that seemed to enclose the veranda from below. And now, reaching the hedge, and pausing for an instant to look around him again in every direction, the man parted the bushes and disappeared under the veranda. My word! observed Captain Francis Newcomb tersely. What's it about? The thief in the night? Or what? I'll see what the beggars up to anyway. He took a step forward, but Polly held him back. Keep quiet! she breathed. It's only Mr. Marlin. Captain Francis Newcomb whistled low under his breath. As bad as that, is he? Polly nodded her head. Yes, she said a little miserably. I'm afraid so, though it's the first time I ever saw anything like this. But what is he doing under the veranda there at this hour? demanded Captain Francis Newcomb. Polly shook her head this time. I don't know, she said. But I think there must be some way in and out of the house under there, for I am certain he was in bed less than an hour ago, because when Dora left me, she was going to see that her father was all right for the night, and if she hadn't found him in his room, I am sure she would have been alarmed and would have come back to me. I saw him come out of there a little while ago. I was sitting on the veranda waiting for you. I started to follow him across the lawn, and then I thought I had no right to do so, and then I saw you, and I forgot all about him. Captain Francis Newcomb was a master of facial expression. He became instantly grave and concerned. Well, I should say then, he stated thoughtfully, that from what I've just seen, and from what you wrote in your letter about the fabulous sum of money he keeps about him, he ought to have a good deal of medical attention, and the money taken from him and put in some safe place. Don't you know Miss Marlin well enough to suggest something like that? Polly Wicks shook her head quickly. Oh, you don't understand, Guardi. She said anxiously. He has had medical attention. The very best specialist from New York has been here since I wrote you, and he says there is really absolutely nothing that can be done. Mr. Marlin is just the dearest old man you ever knew. It's just on that one subject not so much money as finance, though I don't quite understand the difference that he is insane. If he were taken away from here and shut up anywhere, it would kill him. And, as Dr. Dahmer said, what better place could there be than this? And anyway, Dora wouldn't hear of it, and as for taking the money away from him, nobody knows where it is. Captain Francis Newcomb was staring at the bushes that fringed the veranda. Oh, he said quietly. That puts quite a different complexion on the matter. I didn't understand. I gathered from your letter that the money was more or less always in evidence. In fact, I think you said he showed it to you. A half million dollars in cash. So he did, Polly answered. But that's the only time I ever saw it. And I don't think even Dora has ever seen it more than once or twice. He has got it hidden somewhere, of course. But as it would be the very worst thing in the world for him to get the idea into his head that anyone was watching him in an attempt to discover his secret, Dora has been very careful to show no signs of interest in it. Dr. Dahmer warned her particularly that any suspicions aroused in her father's mind would only accentuate the disease. Oh, Guardi, it's a terribly sad case. And insanity is such a horribly strange thing. He never seems to— Polly was still talking. Captain Francis Newcomb inclined his head from time to time in assumed interest. He was no longer listening. Polly, the beauty of the night, his immediate surroundings were, for the moment, extraneous things. His mind was at work. Incredible luck. The problem that had troubled him, that he had never really solved, that he had, indeed, finally must be left to circumstances as he should find them here, and be then governed thereby. Was now solved in a manner that far exceeded anything he could possibly have hoped for. To obtain the actual possession of the money from a fuddled-brained old idiot had never bothered him. That was a very simple matter. But to get away with the money, after the robbery had been committed, had not appeared so simple. Someone on the island must be guilty. The circle would be none too wide. He must emerge without a breath of suspicion, having touched him. Not so simple. There would have been a way, of course. Wits and ingenuity would have supplied it. But that had been the really intricate part of the undertaking. And now, incredible luck. He had naturally assumed that the household knew where the old madman kept his money. Naturally assumed that there would be a beastly fuss and uproar over its disappearance. But now there would be nothing of the kind. It might take a few days to solve the old fool's secret, but in the main that would be child's play. After that, if by any unfortunate chance an accident happened to Mr. Jonathan P. Marlin, the whereabouts of the money would forever remain a mystery. Saved to one Captain Francis Newcomb. No one could, or would, be accused of having taken it. Guardi, you quite understand, don't you? Ended Polly Wicks. Captain Francis Newcomb smiled at the upturned, serious face. Quite, Polly, quite. He answered earnestly. Very fully, I might say. It must be very hard indeed on Ms. Marlin. I am so sorry for her. I wish there was something we might do. Your being here must have been a blessing to her. The colors stole into Polly Wicks' cheeks. Guardi, you're a deer, she whispered. Am I, he said, and took possession of her hand. What a soft, cool little palm it was! What an entrancing little figure! Who would have dreamed that Polly would develop into so lovely? No, not lovely, damn it! She was divine! Polly and a half million! Why Locke? Curse Locke! The eyes and lips of a dream woman, he had said. A half million! Both his for the taking! Did he ask still more? He was not so sure about Locke having her. No, it wasn't the night drugging his senses and steeping his soul in fancy possession of desires. It was real. If it pleased him, he had only to take to drink his fill to satiation of this goblet of the gods. There was nothing to stay him. He had built for it. And he was entitled to it. It wasn't chance. Chance! There was strange laughter in his heart. Chance was the playground of fools. Why shouldn't he laugh, eye, and boastingly? Who was to deny him what he would, this woman if he wanted her, the— He stood suddenly like a man dazed and stunned. He let fall the girl's hand. Was he mad, insane, his mind unbalanced? Was reason gone? It had come out of the night, a mocking thing, a voice that jeered and rocked with wild mirth. His eyes met Polly's. She was frightened, startled. Her face had gone a little white. Imagination, as he had imagined that night in his cabin on board ship, a voice of his own creation? No. It came again now, jarring, crashing, jangling through the stillness of the night. Shadow-varn, shadow-varn, ha, ha, ha, ha. It rose and fell. Now almost a scream, now hoarse with wild, untrammeled laughter. Shadow-varn, shadow-varn, ha, ha, ha, ha. And then, like a long drawn-out eerie call, shadow-varn. And then the soft whispering of the leaves through the trees, and no other sound. What is it? What is it? Polly cried out. What a horrible voice. Captain Francis Newcomb's hand, hidden in his pocket, held a revolver. To get rid of the girl now. The voice had come from the woods in the direction of the shore. A voice, Shadow-varn. Who called Shadow-varn here on this island, where Shadow-varn had never been heard of? He was cold as ice now, cold with a merciless fury battering at his heart. He did not know, but he would know. And then… You run along into the house, Polly. He forced a cool sang-fois into his voice. It's probably nothing more than some of the negroes you spoke of in your letter, cat-calling out there on the water, or else someone with a perverted sense of humor in the woods here trying to spoof us. And in that case, a lesson is needed. Quick now, Polly. It's time you were in bed anyway. And say nothing about it. There's no use raising an alarm over what probably amounts to nothing. I'll tell you all about it in the morning. She was still staring at him in a frightened, startled way. But, guardie, she faltered. You… Damn the girl! She was wasting precious moments. But he could not explain that he had a personal interest in that cursed voice, could he? He smiled reassuringly. I'll tell you all about it in the morning. If there's anything to tell, he repeated. Now, run along. Good night, dear. Good night, guardie. She said hesitatingly. He watched her start toward the house. Then he swung quickly from the road into the woods. He swore savagely to himself. She had kept him too long. There was very little chance now of finding the owner of that voice. Had there ever been? What did it matter, the moment or so it had taken to get rid of Polly? The odds were all with the voice, and had been from the start. He was not only metaphorically, but literally, stabbing in the dark. What did it mean? Again he swore, and swore now through clenched teeth. He knew well enough what it meant. It meant what he knew now that shot through his cabin window had meant. It meant that he was known to someone, as he should be known to no one. It meant that of two men on this island, there was room for only one. Otherwise it promised disaster, exposure, the end. A strangling, horrible end, at the end of a rope. A door of the past, a jar. Who? Who? He was making too much noise. Rather than stalking his game, he was more likely to be stalked. He had been stalked when that voice had cried out. He halted, listened, nothing. But it was somewhere in here that the voice had come from. He could swear to that. He worked forward again. Damn the trees and foliage! How could one go quietly when one had to fight one's way through? And it was soggy and wet underfoot. One's feet made squeaky, oozy noises. They came out on the beach, a long curvy stretch of sand, glistening white in the moonlight. He was amazed that he had travelled so far. How far had he travelled? His mind, like his soul, was in a state of fury, of fear. There was upon him a frenzy, the urge of self-preservation, to kill. A structure of some kind, extending out to the sea, loomed up a distance away over to the right. He stared at it. It was a boathouse, and its ornate exaggerated size stamped it at once as an adjunct to the mad millionaire's mansion. But the voice had not come from the boathouse. It had come from the woods back in here behind him. Captain Francis Newcomb retraced his steps into the woods again, but now with far greater caution than before. And presently, his revolver in his hand, he sat down upon the stump of a tree. He held his hand up close before his eyes. It was steady, without sign of tremor. That was better. He was cooler now. No, cool, not cooler, quite himself. If he could not move here in the woods without making a noise, neither could anyone else. And from the moment that voice had flung its threat and jeer through the night, there had been no sound in the underbrush. He had listened, straining his ears for that very thing, even while he had maneuvered to get Polly out of the road without arousing suspicion and then himself in her mind. He was listening now. It was the only chance. True, whoever it was, might have been close to the beach, or close to the road, and had already escaped, and in that case, he was done in. But on the other hand, the man, if it were a man and not a devil, might very well have done what he, Captain Francis Newcomb, was doing now, remained silent and motionless, secure in the darkness. If that were so, then, sooner or later, the other must make a move. Silly, impossible, a preposterous theory? Perhaps, but there was no alternative hope of catching the other tonight. Why hadn't he adopted this plan from the start? How sure was he, after all, that, covered by the noise he himself had made, the other had not got away? The minutes passed. Five, ten of them. There was no sound. The silence itself became heavy. It began to palpitate. It grew even clamorous, thundering ghastly auguries, threats and jibes in his ears. And then it began to take up a horrible sing-song refrain. Who was it? Who was it? Who was it? What would tomorrow bring? Shout-o-varn. It was literally a death sentence, wasn't it? Unless he could close forever those bawling lips. He felt the gray come creeping into his face. He, who laughed at fear, who had laughed at it all his life, saved through that one night on board the ship, was beginning to fight over again his battle for composure. Shout-o-varn. Shout-o-varn. Hell itself seemed striving to shake his nerve. Well, neither hell nor anything else could do it. There were those who had learned that to their cost. And it seemed there was another now who was yet to learn it. His teeth clamped suddenly together in a vicious snap, and suddenly he was on his feet. Faintly there came the rustle of foliage. It came again. He could not place its direction at first. It might be an animal. No. The rustling ceased. Someone was running now on the road in the direction of the dock, but a long way off. He lunged and tore his way through trees and undergrowth, and broke into the clear of the road. He raced madly along. He could see nothing ahead because of those infernal moon-flecked turnings that he had been full enough to rave over on his way to the house. Nothing. He drew up for a second and listened. Nothing. He spurred it on again. A game of blind man's bluff, and he was blindfolded. He came out into the clearing with the dock in sight. Again he stopped and listened. Still nothing. His lips tightened. It was futile. He would only be playing the fool to grope further around in the darkness in what now could be but the most aimless fashion, robbed even of a single possible objective. He could not search the island. There was nothing left to do but go on board. He started out on the dock, and then suddenly, as his eyes narrowed, his stride became nonchalant, debonair. He fell to whistling softly, a catchy air from a recent musical comedy. Reynolds had not gone to bed. Reynolds was stretched out on his back on the deck of the yacht, smoking a pipe, his head propped up on a coil of rope. Captain Francis Newcomb dropped lightly from the wharf to the deck. Hello, Reynolds, he observed, as he halted in front of the other. The artistry of the night got you too? Well, I must say, it's too fine to waste all of it at any rate in sleep. You're bloody well right it is, said Reynolds, strike me pink if it ain't. I've heard of these here places from the time I was born, but I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't laid here smoking my pipe and saying to myself, this here's you, Reynolds, and that there's it. London, I can do without London for a bit. Quite so, said Captain Francis Newcomb. He leaned over and ran his fingers along the sole of Reynolds' upturned boot. Reynolds sat up with a jerk. What the hell are you doing? he ejaculated. Striking a match, said Captain Francis Newcomb, as he lighted a cigarette. You don't mind, do you? It saves the deck. Reynolds, with a grunt, returned his head to the comfort of the coiled rope. Lock turned in, inquired Captain Francis Newcomb casually. About ten minutes after you left, said Reynolds. That engine did him down, if you ask me. I mixed him a peg, and he was off like a shot. Well, I don't know of anything better to do myself, said Captain Francis Newcomb. He turned and walked slowly toward the cabin companion way, but aft by the rail he paused for a moment, hand flinging his cigarette overboard, watched it as it struck the water, and listened as it made a tiny hiss, like a serpent's hiss. His face for an instant became distorted, then said in hard, deep lines, Who was it? The sole of Reynolds' boot was dry, quite dry. End of book two, chapter two