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  Left and right wheeled the searchlight, but never once did it touch the Pealigo. It was searching for her, though they must have seen her lights, and now the big white ray was groping at the spot where the yacht had turned. It missed them by yards.

  “Where are we going?” asked Digby fretfully.

  “We are going back for ten miles, and then we’ll strike between the ship and Ireland, which is there.” He pointed to the horizon, where a splash of light trembled for a second and was gone.

  “We are losing valuable time,” said Digby fretfully.

  “It is better to lose time than to lose your liberty,” said the philosophical captain.

  Digby clutched the rail and his heart turned to water, as the searchlight of the warship again swung round. But fortune was with them. It might, as the captain said, be only a ship carrying out searchlight practice, but on the other hand, in view of the wireless messages which had been received, it seemed certain that the cruiser had a special reason for its scrutiny.

  It was not until they were out of the danger zone that Digby remembered the mission that had brought him to the bridge.

  “What do you mean by putting a man on guard outside that girl’s door?” he asked.

  The captain had gone to the deckhouse, and was bending over the table examining an Admiralty chart. He did not answer until Digby had repeated the question, then he looked up and straightened his back.

  “The future of the lady is dependent, entirely, on the fulfilment of your promise, illustrious,” he said in the flamboyant terminology of his motherland.

  “But I promised—”

  “You have not performed.”

  “Do you doubt my words?” stormed Digby.

  “I do not doubt, but I do not understand,” said the captain. “If you will come to my cabin I will settle with you.”

  Digby thought a while; his interest in Eunice had evaporated with the coming of this new danger, and there was no reason why he should settle that night. Suppose he was captured, the money would be wasted. It would be useless to him also, but this, in his parsimonious way, did not influence him.

  He went down to his cabin, a smaller and less beautifully furnished one than that occupied by Eunice, and pulling an arm-chair to the neat little desk, he sat down to think matters over. And as the hours passed, his perspective shifted. Somehow, the danger seemed very remote, and Eunice was very near, and if any real danger came, why, there would be an end of all things, Eunice included, and his money would be of no more value to him than the spray which flapped against the closed porthole.

  Beneath the bureau was a small, strong safe, and this he unlocked, taking out the broad money-belt which he had fastened about his waist before he began the journey. He emptied one bulging pocket, and laid a wad of bills upon the desk. They were gold bonds of ten thousand dollar denomination, and he counted forty, put the remainder back in the pocket from whence he had taken it, and locked the belt in the safe.

  It was half-past five and the grey of the new day showed through the portholes. He thrust the money in his pocket and went out to talk to the captain.

  He shivered in the chill wind of morning as he stepped out on the deck and made his way for’ard. The little Brazilian, a grotesque figure, wrapped in his overcoat and muffled to the chin, was standing moodily staring across the grey waste. Without a word Digby stepped up to him and thrust the bundle of notes into his hand. The Brazilian looked at the money, counted it mechanically, and put it into his pocket. “Your Excellency is munificent,” he said. “Now take your sentry from the door,” said Digby sharply.

  “Wait here,” said the captain, and went below. He returned in a few minutes.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  SHE had heard the tap of her first visitor at one o’clock in the morning. It had come when Digby Groat was sitting in his cabin turning over the possibilities of misfortune which the future held, and she had thought it was he.

  The handle of the door turned and it opened an inch; beyond that it could not go without a crash, for the chairs and tables that Eunice had piled against it. She watched with a stony face and despair in her heart, as the opening of the door increased.

  “Please do not be afraid,” said a voice.

  Then it was not Digby! She sprang to her feet. It might be some one worse, but that was impossible.

  “Who is it?” she asked.

  “It is I, the captain,” said a voice in laboured English.

  “What is it you want?”

  “I wish to speak to you, mademoiselle, but you must put away these things from behind the door, otherwise I will call two of my sailors, and it will be a simple matter to push them aside.”

  Already he had prized open the door to the extent of two or three inches, and with a groan Eunice realized the futility of her barricade. She dragged the furniture aside and the little captain came in smiling, hat in hand, closing the door after him.

  “Permit me, mademoiselle,” he said politely, and moved her aside while he replaced the furniture; then he opened the door and looked out, and Eunice saw that there was a tall sailor standing with his back to her, evidently on guard. What did this mean, she wondered? The captain did not leave her long in ignorance.

  “Lady,” he said in an accent which it was almost impossible to reproduce, “I am a poor sailor-man who works at his hazardous calling for two hundred miserable milreis a month. But because I am poor, and of humble—” he hesitated and used the Portuguese word for origin—which she guessed at—“it does not mean that I am without a heart.” He struck his breast violently. “I have a repugnancio to hurting female women!”

  She was wondering what was coming next: would he offer to sell his master at a price? If he did, she would gladly agree, but the new hope which surged up within her was dissipated by his next words.

  “My friend Groat,” he said, “is my master. I must obey his orders, and if he says ‘Go to Callio,’ or to Rio de Janeiro, I must go.”

  Her hopes sunk, but evidently he had something more to say.

  “As the captain I must do as I am told,” he said, “but I cannot and will not see a female hurted. You understand?”

  She nodded, and the spark of hope kindled afresh.

  “I myself cannot be here all the time, nor can my inconquerable sailors, to see that you are not hurted, and it would look bad for me if you were hurted—very bad!”

  Evidently the worthy captain was taking a very far-sighted view of the situation, and had hit upon a compromise which relieved him at least of his responsibility toward his master.

  “If the young lady will take this, remembering that Jose Montigano was the good friend of hers, I shall be repaid.”

  “This” was a silvery weapon. She took the weapon in her hand with a glad cry.

  “Oh, thank you, thank you, captain,” she said, seizing his hand.

  “Remember,” he raised a warning finger. “I cannot do more. I speak now as man to woman. Presently I speak as captain to owner. You understand the remarkable difference?”

  He confused her a little, but she could guess what he meant.

  He bowed and made his exit, but presently he returned.

  “To put the chairs and tables against the floor is no use,” he said, shaking his head. “It is better—” He pointed significantly to the revolver, and with a broad grin closed the door behind him.

  Digby Groat knew nothing of this visit: it satisfied him that the sentry had been withdrawn, and that now nothing stood between him and the woman whom, in his distorted, evil way, he loved, but her own frail strength. He tapped again. It pleased him to observe these threadbare conventions for the time being, yet when no answer came to his knock, he opened the door slowly and walked in.

  Eunice was standing at the far end of the cabin; the silken curtains had been drawn aside, and the door leading to her sitting saloon was open. Her hands were behind her and she was fully dressed.

  “My dear,” said Digby, in his most expansive manner,
“why are you tiring your pretty eyes? You should have been in bed and asleep.”

  “What do you want?” she demanded.

  “What else could a man want, who had such a beautiful wife, but the pleasure of her conversation and companionship,” he said with an air of gaiety.

  “Stand where you are,” she called sharply as he advanced, and the authority in her tone made him halt.

  “Now, Eunice,” he said, shaking his head, “you are making a lot of trouble when trouble is foolish. You have only to be sensible, and there is nothing in the world that I will not give you.”

  “There is nothing in the world that you have to give, except the money which you have stolen from me,” she said calmly. “Why do you talk of giving, when I am the giver, and there is nothing for you to take but my mercy?”

  He stared at her, stricken dumb by the coolness at the moment of her most deadly danger, and then with a laugh he recovered his self-possession and strolled towards her, his dark eyes aflame.

  “Stand where you are,” said Eunice again, and this time she had the means to enforce her command.

  Digby could only stare at the muzzle of the pistol pointed towards his heart, and then he shrank back.

  “Put that thing away!” he said harshly. “Damn you, put it away! You are not used to fire-arms, and it may explode.”

  “It will explode,” said Eunice. Her voice was deep and intense, and all the resentment she had smothered poured forth in her words. “I tell you, Digby Groat, that I will shoot you like a dog, and glory in the act. Shoot you more mercilessly than you killed that poor Spaniard, and look upon your body with less horror than you showed.”

  “Put it away, put it away! Where did you get it?” he cried. “For God’s sake, Eunice, don’t fool with that pistol; you don’t want to kill me, do you?”

  “There are times when I want to kill you very badly,” she said, and lowered the point of the revolver at the sight of the man’s abject cowardice.

  He wiped his forehead with a silk handkerchief, and she could see his knees trembling.

  “Who gave you that pistol?” he demanded violently. “You didn’t have it when you left Kennett Hall, that I’ll swear. Where did you find it? In one of those drawers?” He looked at the bureau, one of the drawers of which was half open.

  “Does it matter?” she asked. “Now, Mr. Groat, you will please go out of my cabin and leave me in peace.”

  “I had no intention of hurting you,” he growled. He was still very pale. “There was no need for you to flourish your revolver so melodramatically. I only came in to say good night.”

  “You might have come about six hours earlier,” she said. “Now go.”

  “Listen to me, Eunice,” said Digby Groat; he edged forward, but her pistol covered him, and he jumped. “If you’re going to play the fool, I’ll go,” he said, and followed the action by the deed, slamming the door behind him.

  She heard the outer door open and close, and leant against the brass column of the bed for support, for she was near to the end of her courage. She must sleep, she thought, but first she must secure the outer door. There was a lock on the lobby door; she had not noticed that before. She had hardly taken two steps through the cabin door before an arm was flung round her, she was pressed back, and a hand gripped the wrist which still carried the weapon. With a wrench he flung it to the floor, and in another moment she was in his arms.

  “You thought I’d gone “—he lifted her, still struggling, and carried her back to the saloon. “I want to see you,” he breathed; “to see your face, your glorious eyes, that wonderful mouth of yours, Eunice.” He pressed his lips against hers; he smothered with kisses her cheeks, her neck, her eyes.

  She felt herself slipping from consciousness; the very horror of his caresses froze and paralysed her will to struggle. She could only gaze at the eyes so close to hers, fascinated as by the glare of the deadly snake.

  “You are mine now, mine, do you hear?” he murmured into her ear. “You will forget Jim Steele, forget everything except that I adore you,” and then he saw her wild gaze pass him to the door, and turned.

  The little captain stood there, his hands on his hips, watching, his brown face a mask.

  Digby released his hold of the girl, and turned on the sailor.

  “What the hell are you doing here? Get out,” he almost screamed.

  “There is an aeroplane looking for us,” said the captain. “We have just picked up her wireless.”

  Digby’s jaw dropped. That possibility had not occurred to him.

  “Who is she? What does the wireless say?”

  “It is a message we picked up saying, ‘Nothing sighted. Am heading due south.’ It gave her position,” added the captain, “and if she is coming due south I think Mr. Steele will find us.”

  Digby fell back a pace, his face blanched.

  “Steele,” he gasped.

  The captain nodded.

  “That is the gentleman who signs the message. I think it would be advisable for you to come on deck.”

  “I’ll come on deck when I want,” growled Digby. There was a devil in him now. He was at the end of his course, and he was not to be thwarted.

  “Will the good gentleman come on deck?”

  “I will come later. I have some business to attend to here.”

  “You can attend to it on deck,” said the little captain calmly.

  “Get out,” shouted Digby.

  The captain’s hand did not seem to move; there was a shot, the deafening explosion of which filled the cabin, and a panel behind Digby’s head splintered into a thousand pieces.

  He glared at the revolver in the Brazilian’s hand, unable to realize what had happened.

  “I could have shot you just as easily,” said the Brazilian calmly, “but I preferred to send the little bullet near your ear. Will you come on deck, please?”

  Digby Groat obeyed.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  WHITE and breathless he leant against the bulwark glowering at the Brazilian, who had come between him and the woman whose rum he had planned.

  “Now,” he said, “you will tell me what you mean by this, you swine!”

  “I will tell you many things that you will not like to hear,” said the captain.

  A light dawned upon Digby.

  “Did you give the girl that revolver?”

  The Brazilian nodded.

  “I desired to save you from yourself, my friend,” he said. “In an hour the gentleman Steele will be within sight of us; I can tell where he is within a few miles. Do you wish that he should come on board and discover that you have added something to murder that is worse than murder?”

  “That is my business,” said Digby Groat, breathing so quickly that he felt he would suffocate unless the pent-up rage in him found some vent.

  “And mine,” said the captain, tapping him on the chest. “I tell you, my fine fellow, that that is my business also, for I do not intend to live within an English gaol. It is too cold in England and I would not survive one winter. No, my fine fellow, there is only one thing to do. It is to run due west in the hope that we escape the observation of the airship man; if we do not, then we are—” He snapped his fingers.

  “Do as you like,” said Digby, and turning abruptly walked down to his cabin.

  He was beaten, and the end was near. He took from a drawer a small bottle of colourless liquid, and emptied its contents into a glass. This he placed in a rack conveniently to his hand. The effect would not be violent. One gulp, and he would pass to sleep and there the matter would end for him. That was a comforting thought to Digby Groat.

  If they escaped—! His mind turned to Eunice. She could wait; perhaps they would dodge through all these guards that the police had put, and they would reach that land for which he yearned. He could not expect the captain, after receiving the wireless messages of warning, to take the risks. He was playing for safety, thought Digby, and did not wholly disapprove of the man’s attitude.
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  When they were on the high seas away from the ocean traffic, the little Brazilian would change his attitude, and then—Digby nodded. The captain was wise; it would have been madness on his part to force the issue so soon.

  Eunice could not get away; they were moving in the same direction to a common destination, and there were weeks, hot and sunny weeks, when they could sit under the awning on this beautiful yacht and talk. He would be rational and drop that cave-man method of wooing. A week’s proximity and freedom from restraint might make all the difference in the world, if—There was a big if, he recognized. Steele would not rest until he had found him, but by that time Eunice might be a complacent partner.

  He felt a little more cheerful, locked away the glass and its contents in a cupboard, and strolled up to the deck. He saw the ship now for the first time in daylight, and it was a model of what a yacht should be. The deck was snowy white; every piece of brass-work glittered, the coiled sheets looked to have been dipped in chalk, and under that identical awning great basket chairs awaited him invitingly.

  He glanced round the horizon; there was no ship in sight. The sea sparkled in the rays of the sun, and over the white wake of the steamer lay a deep black pall of smoke, for the Pealigo was racing forward at twenty-two knots an hour. The captain, at any rate, was not playing him false. He was heading west, judged Digby.

  Far away on the right was an irregular purple strip, the line of the Irish coast; the only traffic they would meet now, he considered, was the western-bound steamers on the New York route. But the only sign of a steamer was a blob of smoke on the far-off eastern horizon.

  The chairs invited him, and he sat down and stretched his legs luxuriously.

  Yes, this was a better plan, he thought, and as his mind turned again to Eunice, she appeared at the head of the companion-way. At first she did not see him, and walking to the rail, seemed to be breathing in the beauties of the morning.

  How exquisite she looked! He did not remember seeing a woman who held herself as she did. The virginal purity of her face, the glory of her colouring, the svelte woman figure of her—they were worth waiting for, he told himself again.