Instantly the aeroplane sank under them, leaving them in the sea. It was a strange sensation, thought the girl, for the water was unusually warm.
She heard a shriek and turned, and then Digby caught her hand.
“Keep close to me,” he said in a whimpering voice, “you might be lost in the darkness.”
She knew that he was thinking of himself. A light flared from the oncoming boat, and she looked round. In spite of herself, she asked:
“Where is the man?”
Bronson was nowhere in sight. Digby did not trouble to turn his head or answer. He reached up and gripped the gunwale of the boat and in a minute Eunice was lifted out of the water. She found herself in a small cutter which was manned by brown-faced men, who she thought at first were Japanese.
“Where is Bronson?” she asked again in a panic, but Digby did not reply. He sat immovable, avoiding her eyes, and she could have shrieked her horror. Bronson had gone down with the aeroplane! The strap which Digby had fastened about his waist, he had cunningly attached to the seat itself, and had fastened it so that it was impossible for the pilot to escape.
He was the first up the gangway on to the white deck of the yacht, and turning, he offered his hand to her.
“Welcome to the Pealigo,” he said in his mocking voice.
Then it was not fear that had kept him silent. She could only look at him.
“Welcome to the Pealigo, my little bride,” he said, and she knew that the man who had not hesitated to murder his two comrades in cold blood would have no mercy on her.
A white-coated stewardess came forward, and said something in a language which Eunice did not understand. She gathered that the woman was deputed to show her the way to the cabin. Glad to be free from the association of Digby, she passed down the companion-way, through a lobby panelled in rosewood, into a cabin, the luxury of which struck her, even though her nerves were shattered, and she was incapable of taking an interest in anything outside the terrible fact that she was alone on a yacht with Digby Groat.
Extravagance had run riot here, and the Brazilian must have lavished a fortune in the decoration and appointments.
The saloon ran the width of the ship and was as deep as it was broad. Light was admitted from portholes cunningly designed, so that they had the appearance of old-fashioned casement windows. A great divan, covered in silk, ran the length of the cabin on one side, whilst the other was occupied by a silver bedstead, hung with rose silk curtains. Rose-shaded lights supplied the illumination, and the lamps were fashioned like torches and were held by beautiful classical figures placed in niches about the room.
She came to the conclusion that it was a woman’s room and wondered if there were any other women on board but the stewardess. She asked that woman, but apparently she knew no English, and the few words in Spanish which she had learnt did not serve her to any extent.
The suite was complete, she discovered, for behind the heavy silken curtains at the far end of the cabin there was a door which gave to a small sitting-room and a bathroom. It must be a woman’s. In truth, it was designed especially by Senor Maxilla for his own comfort.
Lying on the bed was a complete change of clothing. It was brand-new and complete to the last detail. Digby Groat could be very thorough.
She dismissed the woman, and bolting the door, made a complete change, for the third time since she had left Grosvenor Square.
The boat was under way now. She could feel the throb of its engines, and the slight motion that it made in the choppy sea. The Pealigo was one of the best sea boats afloat, and certainly one of the fastest yachts in commission.
She had finished her changing when a knock came at the door and she opened it to find Digby standing on the mat.
“You had better come and have some dinner,” he said.
He was quite his old self, and whatever emotions had disturbed him were now completely under control.
She shrank back and tried to close the floor, but now he was not standing on ceremony. Grasping her arm roughly, he dragged her out into the passage.
“You’re going to behave yourself while you’re on this ship,” he said. “I’m master here, and there is no especial reason why I should show you any politeness.”
“You brute, you beast!” she flamed at him, and he smiled.
“Don’t think that because you’re a woman it is going to save you anything in the way of punishment,” he warned her. “Now be sensible and come along to the dining-saloon.”
“I don’t want to eat,” she said.
“You will come into the dining-saloon whether you want to or not.”
The saloon was empty save for the two and a dark-skinned waiter, and, like her own cabin, it was gorgeously decorated, a veritable palace in miniature, with its dangling electrolier, its flowers, and its marble mantelpiece at the far end.
The table was laid with a delicious meal, but Eunice felt she would choke if she took a morsel.
“Eat,” said Digby, attacking the soup which had been placed before him.
She shook her head.
“If you don’t,” and his eyes narrowed, “if you don’t, my good soul, I will find a way of making you eat,” he said. “Remember,” he put his hand in his pocket, pulled out the hateful little black case (it was wet, she noticed) and laid it on the table, “at any rate, you will be obedient enough when I use this!”
She picked up her spoon meekly and began to drink the soup, and he watched her with an amused smile.
She was surprised to find how hungry she was, and made no attempt to deny the chicken en casserole, nor the sweet that followed, but resolutely she refused to touch the wine that the steward poured out for her, and Digby did not press her.
“You’re a fool, you know, Eunice.” Digby lit a cigar without asking permission, and leaning back in his chair, looked at her critically. “There is a wonderful life ahead for you if you are only intelligent. Why worry about a man like Steele? A poor beggar, without a penny in the world—”
“You forget that I have no need of money, Mr. Groat,” she said with spirit. Any reference to Jim aroused all that was savage in her. “I have not only the money which you have not stolen from my estate, but when you are arrested and in prison, I shall recover all that you have now, including this yacht, if it is yours.”
Her answer made him chuckle.
“I like spirit,” he said. “You can’t annoy me, Eunice, my darling. So you like our yacht—our honeymoon yacht?” he added.
To this, she made no reply.
“But suppose you realise how much I love you.” He leant over and caught her hand in both of his and his eyes devoured her. “Suppose you realise that, Eunice, and knew I would give my life—my very soul—to make you happy, wouldn’t that make a difference?”
“Nothing would make a difference to my feelings, Mr. Groat,” she said. “The only chance you have of earning my gratitude is to put in at the nearest port and set me ashore.”
“And where do I set myself?” he asked coolly. “Be as intelligent as you are beautiful, Eunice. No, no, I shall be very glad to make you happy, so long as I get a little of the happiness myself, but I do not risk imprisonment and death.” He shivered, and hated himself that he had been surprised into this symptom of fear and hated her worst, having noticed that.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“We are bound to South America,” said Digby, “and it may interest you to learn that we are following a track which is not usually taken by the South American traffic. We shall skirt Ireland and take what Americans call the Western Ocean route, until we are within 1000 miles of Long Island, when we shall turn due south. By this way we avoid being sighted by the American ships, and we also avoid—”
The man who came in at that moment, Eunice thought must be the captain.
He wore three rings of gold about his wrist, but he was not her ideal of a seaman. Under-sized, lame in one foot, his parchment face of stiff black hair almost convinced her that
this was a Japanese boat after all.
“You must meet the captain,” said Digby, introducing him, “and you had better make friends with him.”
Eunice thought that the chances of her making friends with that uncompromising little man were remote.
“What is it, captain?” asked Digby in Portuguese.
“We have just picked up a wireless; I thought you’d like to see it.”
“I had forgotten we had wireless,” said Digby as he took the message from the man’s hand.
It was ill-spelt, having been written by a Brazilian who had no knowledge of English and had set down the message letter by letter as he received it. Skipping the errors of transmission, Digby read;
“To all ships westward, southward, and homeward bound. Keep a sharp look out for the yacht Pealigo and report by wireless, position and bearing, to Inspector Rite, Scotland Yard.”
Eunice did not understand what they were talking about, but she saw a frown settle on Digby’s forehead, and guessed that the news was bad. If it was bad for him, then it was very good for her, she thought, and her spirits began to rise.
“You had better go to bed, Eunice,” said Digby. “I want to talk to the captain.”
She rose, and only the captain rose with her.
“Sit down,” said Digby testily. “You are not here to do the honours to Mrs. Digby Groat.”
She did not hear the last words, for she was out of the saloon as quickly as she could go. She went back to her own cabin, shut the door, and put up her hand to shoot home the bolt, but while she had been at dinner somebody had been busy. The bolt was removed and the key of the door was gone!
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
EUNICE stared at the door. There was no mistake. The bolts had recently been removed and the raw wood showed where the screws had been taken out.
The Pealigo was rolling now, and she had a difficulty in keeping her balance, but she made her way round the cabin, gathering chairs, tables, everything that was movable, and piling them up against the door. She searched the drawers of the bureau for some weapon which might have been left by its former occupant, but there was nothing more formidable than a golden-backed hairbrush which the plutocratic Maxilla had overlooked.
The bathroom yielded nothing more than a long-handled brush, whilst her sitting-room made no return for her search.
She sat watching the door as the hours passed, but no attempt was made to enter the cabin. A bell rang at intervals on the deck: she counted eight. It was midnight. How long would it be before Digby Groat came?
At that moment a pale-faced Digby Groat, his teeth chattering, sat in the cabin of the wireless operator, reading a message which had been picked up. Part was in code, and evidently addressed to the Admiralty ships cruising in the vicinity, but the longer message was in plain English and was addressed:
“To the chief officers of all ships. To the Commanders of H.M. ships: to all Justices of the Peace, officers of the police Great Britain and Ireland. To all Inspectors, sub-inspectors of the Royal Irish Constabulary:
“Arrest and detain Digby Groat, height five foot nine, stoutly built, complexion sallow, had small moustache but believed to have shaven. Speaks Spanish, French, Portuguese, and is a qualified surgeon and physician, believed to be travelling on the S.Y. Pealigo, No. XVM. This man is wanted on a charge of wilful murder and conspiracy; a reward of five thousand pounds will be paid by Messrs. Salter & Salter, Solicitors, of London, for his arrest and detention. Believe he has travelling with him, under compulsion, Dorothy Danton, age 22. Groat is a dangerous man and carries fire-arms.”
The little captain of the Pealigo took the thin cigar from his teeth and regarded the grey ash attentively, though he was also looking at the white-faced man by the operator’s side.
“So you see, senhor,” he said suavely, “I am in a most difficult position.”
“I thought you did not speak English,” said Digby, finding his voice at last.
The little captain smiled.
“I read enough English to understand a reward of five thousand pounds, senhor,” he said significantly. “And if I did not, my wireless operator speaks many languages, English included, and he would have explained to me, even if I had not been able to understand the message myself.”
Digby looked at him bleakly.
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
“That depends upon what you are going to do,” said the Brazilian. “I am no traitor to my salt, and I should like to serve you, but you readily understand that this would mean a terrible thing for me, if, knowing that you were wanted by the English police, I assisted you to make an escape? I am not a stickler for small things,” he shrugged his shoulders, “and Senhor Maxilla did much that I closed my eyes to. Women came into his calculations, but murder never.”
“I am not a murderer, I tell you,” stormed Digby vehemently, “and you are under my orders. Do you understand that?”
He jumped up and stood menacingly above the unperturbed Brazilian, and in his hand had appeared an ugly-looking weapon.
“You will carry out my instructions to the letter, or, by God, you’ll know all about it!”
But the captain of the Pealigo had returned to the contemplation of his cigar. He reminded Digby somewhat of Bronson, and the yellow-faced man shivered as at an unpleasant thought.
“It is not the first time I have been threatened with a revolver,” said the captain coolly. “Years ago when I was very young, such things might have frightened me, but to-day I am not young. I have a family in Brazil who are very expensive; my pay is small, otherwise I would not follow the sea and be every man’s dog to kick and bully as he wishes. If I had a hundred thousand pounds, senhor, I should settle down on a plantation which I have bought and be a happy and a silent man for the rest of my life.”
He emphasized “silent,” and Digby understood.
“Couldn’t you do that for a little less than a hundred thousand?” he asked.
“I have been thinking the matter out very carefully. We shipmen have plenty of time to think, and that is the conclusion that I have reached, that a hundred thousand pounds would make all the difference between a life of work and a life of ease.” He was silent for a moment and then went on. “That is why I hesitated about the reward. If the radio had said a hundred thousand pounds, senhor, I should have been tempted.”
Digby turned on him with a snarl.
“Talk straight, will you?” he said. “You want me to pay you a hundred thousand pounds, and that is the price for carrying me to safety; otherwise you will return to port and give me up.”
The captain shrugged his shoulders.
“I said nothing of the sort, senhor,” he said. “I merely mentioned a little private matter in which I am glad to see you take an interest. The senhor also wishes for a happy life in Brazil with the beautiful lady he brought on board, and the senhor is not a poor man, and if it is true that the beautiful lady is an heiress, he could be richer.”
The operator looked in. He was anxious to come back to his own cabin, but the captain, with a jerk of his head, sent him out again.
He dropped his voice a tone.
“Would it not be possible for me to go to the young lady and say: ‘Miss, you are in great danger, and I too am in danger of losing my liberty, what would you pay me to put a sentry outside your door; to place Senhor Digby Groat in irons, in the strong-room? Do you think she would say a hundred thousand pounds, or even a half of her fortune, senhor?”
Digby was silent.
The threat was real and definite. It was not camouflaged by any fine phrases; as plainly as the little Brazilian could state his demands, he had done so.
“Very good.” Digby got up from the edge of the table where he had sat, with downcast eyes, turning this and that and the other plan over in his mind. “I’ll pay you.”
“Wait, wait,” said the captain. “Because there is another alternative that I wish to put to you, senhor,” he said. “Suppose that I am he
r friend, or pretend to be, and offer her protection until we reach a port where she can be landed? Should we not both receive a share of the great reward?”
“I will not give her up,” said Digby between his teeth. “You can cut that idea out of your head, and also the notion about putting me in irons. By God, if I thought you meant it—” He glowered at the little man, and the captain smiled.
“Who means anything in this horrible climate?” he said lazily. “You will bring the money tomorrow to my cabin, perhaps—no, no, tonight,” he said thoughtfully.
“You can have it tomorrow.”
The captain shrugged his shoulders; he did not insist, and Digby was left alone with his thoughts.
There was still a hope; there were two. They could not prove that he shot Fuentes, and it would be a difficult matter to pick up the yacht if it followed the course that the captain had marked for it, and in the meantime there was Eunice. His lips twisted, and the colour came into his face. Eunice! He went along the deck and down the companion-way, but there was a man standing in the front of the door of the girl’s cabin, a broad-shouldered brown-faced man, who touched his cap as the owner appeared, but did not budge.
“Stand out of the way,” said Digby impatiently. “I want to go into that room.”
“It is not permitted,” said the sailor.
Digby stepped back a pace, crimson with anger.
“Who gave orders that I should not pass?”
“The capitano,” said the man.
Digby flew up the companion-ladder and went in search of the captain. He found him on the bridge.
“What is this?” he began, and the captain snapped something at him in Portuguese, and Digby, looking ahead, saw a white-fan-shaped light stealing along the sea.
“It is a warship, and she may be engaged in manoeuvres,” said the captain, “but she may also be looking for us.”
He gave an order, and suddenly all the lights on the ship were extinguished. The Pealigo swung round in a semicircle and headed back the way she had come.
“We can make a detour and get past her,” explained the captain, and Digby forgot the sentry at the door in the distress of this new danger.
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