The innocent question caught Bill up short. “Oh, I’m on a walking tour,” he said as steadily as he could, then smiled wanly at his joke. “I—I went down to the shore for a swim and that confounded current got me. I thought I was bound for Davy Jones, all right!”
“Where did you go for a bath?” she asked anxiously, it seemed to him.
“Oh, there’s a little bay at the end of a lane off the main road to Clayton. And the sea looked so tempting I couldn’t resist it.”
“Did you—did you see anybody in the woods as you came along?” She gave him a quick glance.
“Not a soul. If I’d drowned, my clothes would have lain on the shore for weeks.”
She nodded. “It’s a lovely old place, Turner’s,” she remarked casually.
“Oh, so that is its name!”
“You’ve seen it then—the house among the trees?”
“Well, I came past it, you know,” he dissembled. “I got only a glimpse of it....”
The girl looked at him sharply, the carefree expression gone from her eyes. She stared at him for several minutes.
“How long have you been on your walking tour?” she asked suddenly.
“Oh, about a week,” he answered easily. “I—”
The girl drew herself up. “I want to know the truth!” Her voice sounded a challenge. “Your name is Harold Johnson, and you flew up here night before last from Stamford, Connecticut!”
Bill was astounded. Still limp and sick from his exertions in the water, this declaration—half truth that it was—literally took his breath away. Of course she was mistaken in the name, but Stamford is only five or six miles from New Canaan. Did she take him for someone else, or had she only got the name wrong? In either case, would it be wise to reveal his real identity? What if she were one of those working against Mr. Evans?
Yet she was but a young girl and these enemies of Charlie’s father had already proven themselves to be villains of the first water. Weak as he was, Bill’s brain was unable to cope with the problem. His bewilderment was evidently clearly written on his face, for he could see a slow smile appearing in the girl’s eyes as she stood in the doorway and looked down on him.
“I notice you don’t deny it, Mr. Johnson,” she remarked abruptly.
Bill shook his head. “I don’t see the good of denying it,” he replied quietly. “You appear to know all about me. But as a point of interest, I’d be glad to know how you got your information.”
“No doubt it’s a point of great interest to you,” she said with deliberation. “But you really can’t expect me to answer that question. To tell the truth, I was a little doubtful about you at first—I only mentioned your name to make quite certain who you were. But now we know what to do.”
“And that is?”
“Ah! but you go too fast!” She took a step nearer and her voice softened. “Mr. Johnson, why did you decide to come to Maine? Do you really think it is going to bring you luck?”
Bill looked at her closely, unable to decide what was in her mind. Perhaps her object was to sound him delicately on how much he really knew. He did not reply.
“Well,” she went on, and her tone was low and serious, “if I were you, I wouldn’t be too sure about that luck. Some things, you know, are better left alone.”
“Frankly, I don’t get you,” said Bill.
“And yet my meaning is perfectly plain. If you only knew what you are up against, you would not complicate your affairs by—well, by taking on another risk.”
Bill had not the slightest idea what this dark-eyed girl was driving at. He couldn’t give anything away. Mr. Evans’ plans—the very nature of this mysterious business he had dropped into with the thunderstorm was still an unsolved enigma, so far as he was concerned.
This girl, no matter who she was, appeared to be conversant with details of the situation. If he continued to play Mr. Johnson, in whom she seemed vastly interested, some real news might pop out unawares.
“Another risk?” he repeated, taking up the threat of her last remark. “What if I say I don’t mind taking risks?”
“Mr. Johnson, you talk lightly because you do not know. It is one thing to keep out of the hands of the police, but if you knew the truth about your new venture—”
Bill began to think that she was older than he first surmised. Her eyes were half closed, and the curves of her mouth had moulded into a firm line. It gave him quite a shock of surprise to see that look on her face—a look of grim defiance, the look of one who would not hesitate to shoot, and shoot straight, in an extremity.
“You don’t mind risks? Well, Mr. Johnson, you’ll have risks in plenty before you’re much older!”
Bill smiled. “Maybe. But I’ll never have a closer shave than I had this morning. You must admit that. If you and old Jim hadn’t been on this island, I should have gone under for keeps.”
“Don’t speak of it any more,” said the girl. Her expression changed and a gentler note came into her voice. “Try to get some sleep. That’s what you need more than anything else at present. In a few hours I’ll bring you something to eat and you’ll feel better.”
“You’re very kind, and I’ll never be able to thank you properly. But, really, if you could see your way to help me get back to the mainland quickly, I’d be more than obliged.”
She shook her head. “I won’t hear of it. You’re not fit for any such thing. I insist on your having some sleep first. Perhaps you don’t realize it, but you’re still looking dreadfully white and shaky.”
Bill saw that there was nothing to do but comply with her orders, so he lay down again on the cot.
“That’s better,” she said. “Now I must go. I’ll be back later on and I hope you’ll be comfortable in the meantime.”
With that she went out and shut the door. Bill heard a click. She had turned the key in the lock! He started up at the sound, but dropped back, a faint smile on his lips. If she wanted to be sure that he kept to the hut—well, that was her business. He was, to all purposes, a prisoner anyway, lock or no lock. Unless he could get hold of a boat, there would be no leaving the island. Swimming was out of the question. One try at the currents surrounding this rocky shore was quite enough.
But who were this girl and the old man? She said she lived here—but that could mean anything. Had Charlie been able to get back to the house? The youngster evidently hated the spooky place. Would he stay there, now that he was alone? With these thoughts buzzing through his tired brain, Bill fell into sleep.
He awoke to find the girl at his side, bearing a tray filled with food. What hour it was he could not tell, and at the moment he did not inquire. His main obsessions now were a racking thirst and an ardent hunger for food. He’d had nothing to eat since early morning, and the chops, fried potatoes and tea, with brown bread and honey, tasted delicious. While he did justice to the fare, the girl sat on a packing case in the doorway, chatting inconsequentially.
When the last morsel of his meal had disappeared, Bill thanked her again. Then he rose to his feet, determined to bring matters to a head.
“I hope it won’t put you to any inconvenience,” he said quietly, “but I will take it as a favor if you’ll help me get back to the mainland now. Please don’t think I haven’t appreciated your hospitality. You have been more than kind to me. But you understand it is vitally important for me to get back.”
“Ah—your walking tour is so important as all that?” She cast an amused glance up at him.
“Certainly.” Bill met her look firmly. “If you will be good enough to give orders for the boat—”
“I’m afraid, Mr. Johnson,” she said slowly, “that that is impossible.”
“Impossible? You mean there’s no way of getting across? I thought you said something about a motor boat—has anything gone wrong with it?”
“I don’t mean that, Mr. Johnson. I mean that you must remain here. To be frank—I have my instructions.”
“Instructions! And from whom?” he demanded curtly.
The girl looked at him steadily. “You must not ask. It is too late now for you to back out. You should have thought of the risks you ran before you came up here on this errand.”
“I have no wish to back out of anything,” he exclaimed shortly. “And as for risks, I told you before that I am willing to take them. But my mind is made up on one thing—I’m going back to the mainland now!”
He made as if to pass her in the doorway.
She stepped aside, her eyes fixed smilingly on his.
“You may go,” she said. “I wish you a pleasant swim.”
“But the motor boat,” Bill cried, exasperated. “I intend to use that motor boat, though I have to run her myself.”
The girl laughed. “You’ll have your work cut out, Mr. Johnson. The motor boat has gone!”
Bill stared at her. Then abruptly he turned and walked out of the hut and up a steep incline that led to the cliffs overlooking the sea. Twenty-five feet below, deep water swirled about its base where year in and year out the strong current had eaten into solid rock. He heard a footstep beside him.
“Of course,” said the girl, her eyes twinkling, “there’s a dinghy locked in the boat-house! But you can’t break the lock, because I tried one day when I thought I’d lost the key. I’m sorry, Mr. Johnson, but I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with my company for a little while longer.”
Bill did not reply. He was listening to the unmistakable sound of a four-cylinder engine, one of whose cylinders intermittently missed fire. A motor boat shot round the point to their left and swung in toward the base of the cliff. It carried a single occupant.
“Here she comes now,” he said.
“That’s not our boat.”
“Whose is it then?”
“I don’t know—but I can guess.”
“That you, Bill?” shouted the man in the motor boat.
Bill, to his certain knowledge, had never laid eyes on him before. “It sure is,” he shouted back. “Will you take me across?”
The man seemed to hesitate. Then he slowed down his small craft. “You’ll have to jump, Bill,” was what he said, using his hands as a megaphone.
“But—I say!”
“Jump, you fool—and be quick about it.” There was authority as well as power in the strident tones.
Bill kicked off the leather moccasins he wore, and stepped back a few paces.
“You’re not Harold Johnson!” exclaimed the girl.
“Never said I was,” returned Bill. “Sorry to leave so hastily. But there’s a reason. Thanks for everything—bye-bye!”
“What a perfect idiot I’ve been!” she cried. “You’re Bill Bolton, of course.”
“Of course!” grinned Bill and sprang toward the edge.
“Don’t go!” she shrieked. “It’s Sanders—he’ll kill you—don’t—” She screamed.
Bill’s body shot through the air, and he cut the water below in a very pretty dive.
Bill came to the surface a few yards from the motor boat. Three or four quick strokes brought him to the side, where with the help of an extended hand, he clambered aboard to face the stranger.
Getting back his wind, Bill took stock of the man. His first impression had been of his slight build, but on closer scrutiny Bill saw that he was well-knit, with very broad shoulders. He had a rather sallow, clean-shaven face, with unexpectedly large and very bright dark eyes. These eyes never left Bill for a second as he opened the throttle and sent the boat skimming round the end of the island.
“That was a very nice dive,” the man spoke abruptly, with a quick nod as if to emphasize the point. “Fond of swimming, aren’t you? Though not as keen on it as you were this morning, eh?” He grinned at what he considered a good joke and nodded his head emphatically.
Bill began to realize that this continual nodding must be a form of nervousness and that probably the man himself was unconscious of it.
“Thanks for the lift, Mr.—er—Sanders?” he said.
“That’s right—Sanders is the name,” the man at the wheel jerked out. “The young lady recognized me, it seems. Needn’t have been so dramatic about it, though. I kind of guessed you’d have enough of Pig Island by this time.”
“What made you think so?”
“Well,” Mr. Sanders nodded, “there’s no reason to keep the thing a secret. I moseyed over to the island a few hours ago. Tied up down t’other end from the houses. Happened to overhear Deborah talking to old Jim. Caught on to the fact they’d taken you for Slim Johnson, and that they meant to keep you with them a while.”
“And they didn’t know you were spying?” The more Bill saw of his smiling, nodding rescuer, the less he liked him.
“Oh, it ain’t likely I let ’em catch sight of me! I don’t know about the girl, but old Jim Hancock is one of those fellers who never misses with a rifle.”
“So you, I take it, Mr. Sanders, are working for the other side in this mysterious business?”
“I am the other side, Mr. Midshipman Bolton. What made you think I’d want to chum up with Evans’ secretary?”
“Evans’ secretary!” Bill repeated in amazement. “You mean—that girl—Deborah—is his secretary?”
“Surest thing you know, young man. Evans owns Pig Island—didn’t he tell you that?”
Mr. Sanders laughed sardonically and nodded until Bill thought he would burst a blood vessel—he hoped he would.
“And so,” said Bill, light dawning at last, “you decided it would be swell to have me throw myself into your arms, as it were. And before those people on the island and I woke up to the fact that we were on the same side of the fence in this mixup!” Mentally he cursed himself for his impulsiveness.
“Who’d have thought you’d tumble so fast?” sneered Sanders.
Then as Bill made a threatening move toward him, an automatic whipped into sight from beneath Sanders’ armpit.
“Oh, no you don’t, sonny!” he barked. “It won’t pay you to get nasty with me. Sit down! It’s time you learned a few things, you young whelp!”
“There’s no doubt about that,” Bill agreed bitterly, looking into the blue-black muzzle some four feet away. He bent backward as though to sit down on the thwart, when without warning his right leg shot out and he planted a smashing blow with his bare foot upon the under side of Sander’s wrist. The automatic flew harmlessly overside, while the astounded man found himself seized by his tingling wrist. His arm was jerked forward with a suddenness that almost wrenched it from the socket, while Bill’s other arm wrapped tightly about the semi-paralyzed member. There came another wrench, and dizzying pain, and he went headfirst out of the boat, after his revolver. When he rose to the surface, his craft was already some yards away.
“As I said before,” Bill called to him, “there’s no doubt about it. You should learn savatte—the French method of foot-boxing, you know. That arm-hold I learned among others from a jiu-jitsu professor—a Jap. It pays to have international tastes. Incidentally I don’t think the current is bad about here. You’re only about sixty yards from shore. Cheerio—as they say in Merry England. A pleasant swim, Mister Sanders!”
Sanders said nothing. He felt too sick even to swear. His right arm pained him so that he turned on his back and headed for shore, using his left and both legs as a means to propel his aching body.
Bill widened his throttle and sped up the motor boat, keeping the shore line on his left. A mile farther on he came to the mouth of the cove where he had bathed with Charlie that morning. He shut off the engine and took a survey of his surroundings.
The gentle breeze had gone with the morning. Not a branch moved, not a leaf stirred on the trees above the rocks. Bill guessed it must be close to seven in the evening, for the sun was barely discernible above the woods, and long shadows lay upon the quiet water.
Next, he made a thorough inspection of the boat which brought to light two interesting items. In a locker forward he came upon the clothes he had left on the beach that morning. Bill was delighted, for this find provided him with two things he needed badly, shoes and a watch.
Beneath the clothes was a light overcoat of covert cloth, apparently the property of Sanders. He pulled it out and was about to put it back again, when a thought struck him. A closer inspection of the coat brought forth, first, a pair of pigskin gloves, then from the inside pocket, Bill extracted three envelopes.
All three of these missives bore the Stamford, Connecticut, postmark, and all three were addressed to
Zenas Sanders,
General Delivery,
Clayton, Maine.
Without the slightest hesitation, Bill took the papers from the slit envelopes. Two proved to be bills; one for repairs on a car, the other from a tailor for three suits of clothes. The third letter, however, was headed “Gring’s Hotel, Stamford, Conn.,” and bore the date of three days earlier. It ran—
“Dear Sanders—Just a line to say I have engaged the experts as directed. Got them in the big city and they sure do ask a big price. But that is your business.
“Now you have located the exact position, it either means taking the Evans’ bunch for a ride or making a snappy job of it. Personally I don’t think it can be done in one night.
“Don’t write any more. Both mails and telegraph are too risky. That gink Evans is wide awake. He’s watching this end too—and you know he’s intercepted two messages already. I know what to do, but if you must send your fool instructions, send them by word of mouth, or better still, fly down here and go up with us. Then we could run in nights and stand out to sea day times, and you would be on board to direct operations. That would stop Evans having you followed up there when you join us as you must eventually. Also if we don’t write any more there’ll be no chance of his being able to get documentary evidence. If you send a man, let him say Zenas and nod like you. Then I’ll know he’s Okay.
“Yours, “Slim.”
Bill read this over three times. The writer, he guessed, must be Harold Johnson, the fellow he had been taken for on the island. He recalled distinctly that Sanders had referred to him as “Slim.” Who or what the “experts” were he had hired, was beyond Bill. On the other hand it was obvious that Slim feared Mr. Evans. The scheme, as he saw it, was that Johnson and his men intended coming by boat to Maine, where Sanders had been successful in locating something they wanted. And, having arrived in Maine waters, the boat would put her crew of gangsters ashore at night and stand off the coast day times. That robbery of some sort was their objective, Bill had not the slightest doubt.
But what they intended to steal or where it was located, Slim had not said. Perhaps it was something concealed at Turner’s—hidden in a safe, possibly—and the “experts” had been hired to get it. Still, if Mr. Evans was hiding something in a safe at Turner’s, what prevented him from moving it to the strong room of some metropolitan bank, where it would be beyond reach of both Sanders and Johnson? Bill discarded the idea of the safe then and there. The best he could do was to get in touch with Mr. Evans or his men just as soon as possible.
He slipped the letter back into the overcoat pocket, and folding the coat, replaced it in the locker. He did not want Sanders to guess that he had read that letter. Then he thought over a plan of procedure. If he took the motor boat to Pig Island, he must take the coat with him, and Sanders’ suspicions would be aroused. If, on the other hand, he beached the craft and made for Turner’s, Sanders, who was very likely now footing it for the cove, might think that in his hurry Bill had overlooked Slim’s letter. Also, he would be more likely to find Mr. Evans at Turner’s, and then, there was Charlie to be considered. If the boy had reached the house and his father had not turned up, he would be forced to stay in that gloomy place himself overnight, a prospect that not even Bill relished.
As he reached these conclusions, Bill sent the motorboat skimming into the cove and beached her. Then, slipping into his socks and shoes, he picked up the remainder of his clothes. It took him but a moment to cross the sand and climb the rocks. Soon he was jogging along the lane at a smart trot. He neither met nor saw a single soul. At last he gained the back door by way of the overgrown shrubbery. He found the key under the mat where they had left it after breakfast. Bill inserted it in the lock and walked into the back entry.
Instead of calling Charlie, he walked into the big kitchen and looked about. Everything seemed exactly as they had left it after washing up that morning.
“Well, it’s a cinch the kid never got back here,” he said to himself. “He’d have spent most of the day in here, consuming provisions, and there’s not a thing been touched. I’d better make sure, though—and if I can scare up a gun of sorts, all to the good!”
His inspection of the entire house, including the cellar, proved his surmise to be well founded. He was alone in the place. Charlie, he figured, had either trudged into Clayton to get in touch with Ezra Parker, or he had been captured by Sanders and his men.
And then it occurred to Bill that it would be well for him to see Parker himself, tonight, so he went down the tunnel to the garage and switched on the lights.
It was dark by the time he got back to the library. He went the rounds of the ground floor again, turning on electrics as he went. If Bill was to be caught by anybody around the spooky house, it would not be unawares, if he could help it.
He got himself some supper and ate it in the kitchen. But somehow, after going to the trouble of preparing food, he had little appetite. The possibility that the house might have another hidden entrance of which he knew nothing made him feel nervous and jumpy, especially since he had not found anything remotely resembling a firearm of any sort.
After he had washed his plate and cup at the kitchen sink, he went back to the library, and pulling down a book at random from the shelves, went out of the room to the hall.
He had decided to wait until eleven, and then make tracks through the woods to Twin Heads Harbor. Ezra Parker was due to fly over the house at midnight and the lighted garage would be sure to send him to the harbor directly afterward.
Bill planned to spend the intervening time in the comfortable alcove which formed a little lounge below the staircase in the hall. Here he could at once be aware of the slightest movement from any part of the house. And with the curtains drawn, he was shut off like a monk in his cell.
But instead of settling down to his book, he grew restless. Twice he got up and examined the shutters on that floor to make sure they were barred. Each time he went back to his curtained retreat, ashamed of himself. This house was giving him the creeps. For some reason, he could not tell why, his nerves were on edge.
As ten o’clock chimed faintly from the mantel timepiece, he thought he heard footsteps. He started up, reviling himself for his folly. The house was old, and it was only the stairs above him that creaked softly. With calm deliberation he brushed past the curtain into the hall, determined to pull himself together.
Standing at the foot of the staircase, a hand on the great oak balustrade, he could hear the quiet patter of a mouse behind the panelling. The tick of the little clock in the alcove, and the hiss and sigh of the wind without, were all that broke the silence of the night. No human being save himself seemed to be stirring for miles around.
Slowly, in stocking feet, he walked down the kitchen passage, paused, and slowly returned. Then he mounted the stairs. All was quiet above. An impulse took him up the narrow stairway to the third story, where he looked out a window at the end of the corridor. The night was dark and only a grayish glimmer marked the sea. The island was invisible. Up there, with the still house below him, he felt like an onlooker in some mysterious play where life and death were casual matters and any means were fair if they led to triumph.
But there was nothing to be gained by pursuing such thoughts—and far from being an onlooker, Bill was very much in the thick of it all. He descended, made another tour of the ground floor, and returned to the alcove. Feeling distinctly more cheerful, he ate a couple of cookies, took up his book and began to read. Perhaps five minutes later, he heard a gentle tap—
It was not imagination this time. Of that he was quite certain. Bill was perfectly calm. He had got over his bout of restlessness that had kept him on the jump. The only disturbing point about the sound was whether it came from within or without the house.
A leaf blowing against a window, that might have caused it. The creak of an old beam would have made the same sound. He waited in silence, and kept a tight grip on himself. No more strung-up nerves, whether this was a false alarm or not. Perhaps a minute later, he heard the click again.
With an exclamation of annoyance, Bill got to his feet, brushed aside the curtain, and peered into the hall.
He found himself face to face with Mr. Zenas Sanders.
“Good evening, Mr. Bolton,” said the intruder mockingly.
“Good evening,” Bill replied politely. “I don’t suppose it’s of any use to inquire how you got in?”
The man’s manner rather flabbergasted Bill. If there had been any suspicion of menace in Sanders’ attitude, Bill would have gone for him straightway with his fists.
“Not the slightest, Mr. Bolton!” And then with a nod and a smile, “Excuse me!”
As Bill was still holding the curtain aside, Sanders stepped past him into the lounge. On the table beside the lamp and book he laid a little automatic.
“No need for that, I hope,” he remarked pleasantly, and dropped into an armchair quite within reach of the revolver. He gave Bill that curious, quick, confidential nod, then took out a gold case and lighted a cigarette. He blew a thin spiral of smoke into the air with obvious enjoyment. For cool nerve, the man’s manner took Bill’s breath away.
“Without going into details,” he said offhandedly, “I’ve as much right here as you, so you’ll pardon me if I make myself at home, won’t you? Sit down—sit down, Bolton.” He pointed to a small seat at the side of the hearth.
“Thanks, I’ll stand.”
“But I said, sit down!” Mr. Sanders’ voice was not raised in the least, but his words came at Bill like an order. A trifle dazed, he sank into the chair.
There was no reason why he shouldn’t have hurled the lamp in Sanders’ face, and in the darkness, pitched the table on top of him. But instead, for no reason he could give, Bill obeyed him, and sat waiting for him to speak. Naturally curious to fathom the reason for this visit, Bill was astounded by his attitude, considering what had happened in the motorboat.
“Thought I’d find you here, Bolton, so I’ve dropped in for a chat.”
Bill leaned back, looking at him, but said nothing.
Mr. Sanders raised his eyebrows, but the tone of his voice did not alter. “I take it that you’re a straightforward sort of fellow, Bolton. You know where you stand with them. I bear no malice for this afternoon’s performance—in fact I admire you. At the present moment, you’re hating me like poison, and the only justification you have is that I didn’t knock before I entered!”
“You’re so remarkably polite tonight,” murmured Bill, “you might have carried your politeness a little further.”
Again Sanders gave his quick nod and smiled. “It isn’t always wise to knock, Bolton. For instance, you might have mistaken my politeness. Since it’s an informal hour to call, you might not have invited me in—and I hate talking on doorsteps. I want a serious talk with you, Bolton.”
Bill made no comment.
“You know, Bolton,” he went on, knocking the ash from his cigarette, “you’re on a fool’s errand. Quite bluntly, you’re taking part in a losing game. I’m being plain with you. Your side hasn’t the foggiest hope of success—for, frankly, I hold all the cards.”
“Well—and so what?”
“Look here!” He punctuated his words with a long forefinger. “Haven’t you brains enough to see you’re being made a catspaw. You’re the one that’s to do the dirty work—you are the lad that’s to run the risks and take all the hard knocks. How do you like the job?”
“I’m not kicking,” said Bill.
Sanders smiled again. “Well, how much are you getting out of it? That’s the point.... Oh, yes, it’s not my business. I know your type—stupid—loyal. I admire stupidity and loyalty because they are generally exerted in a good cause. But when they are wasted qualities—wasted on one of the worst scoundrels in America, it pains me. I’m a student of these things, Bolton—it’s part of a lawyer’s job to weigh motives.”
“A lawyer’s?” Bill looked surprised.
“Certainly,” he returned affably. “It’s an honorable enough profession, eh? I started to read for the English bar and chucked it. I’m a Londoner by birth, you see. But I had a knack for the law. In America I’ve practised ten years as an attorney. However, my energies at present are devoted to tracking down a scoundrel named Evans. Do you follow me?”
“Go on.”
Mr. Sanders nodded again. “Thank you. I’ll come to the point at once, but I wanted you to understand the situation. I intend to get this Mr. Evans, and get him I shall. Soon—very soon. Much sooner than he expects. There is no way out of it for him. I will get him in the end, and the end is not far off.” The pleasant look had gone from his eyes, and his mouth was hard.
“Why do you want him?” Bill blurted out, and a moment later would have done anything to withdraw his words.
“Ah!” Sanders cried, “I thought so! He has been clever enough to conceal that. Exactly. So that is part of his game! Well, my young friend, it’s part of mine, too. It is nobody’s business at present but Mr. Evans’ and my own. And I tell you, there is no sacrifice I wouldn’t make to meet that man face to face, alone, for ten minutes. Look here, Bolton, to come to brass tacks, how much do you want in hard cash to tell me where Evans is at this moment?”
Sanders leaned forward, his glowering eyes fixed upon Bill’s face.
Bill stared back at him and an angry devil rose within the lad. Bribery—so that was the object of his visit! And the man certainly played his cards well. He insinuated that Mr. Evans was a scoundrel, that Bill himself was being made a tool. That was bad enough, and the astuteness of his argument was apparent, but the bribery business stung young Bolton’s pride. He sprang to his feet, determined to lash out at the white, grinning face.
Sanders held up his hand, reading his purpose. “Bolton, I’m delighted. I can see you’re a good fellow. You refuse to give away your man. If you had fallen for that, I wouldn’t have had much respect for you, would I?”
“What the blazes are you getting at now?” demanded Bill.
“Do sit down, my dear chap.” Again came that quick nod. “I’ve no respect for a fellow who sells his boss—cheaply. I’m not asking you to do that, Bolton.”
“Then what—?”
“Just this. Why not come over to my side? Why not leave a sinking ship and come aboard a sound one? Whatever you’re getting out of this game in hard cash, I’ll double. Row in with me, Bolton. You won’t regret it.”
“Nothing doing.” Bill spoke slowly and emphatically.
“You won’t—change your mind?”
“Not for a million.”
“Oh, I was going to do better than that. In fact, my suggestion is that you come in partnership with me. I know that your father is a wealthy man—very wealthy—but millions of dollars are not to be despised by anyone. There are very big things at stake, Bolton, very big indeed.”
He leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Bill’s, the smoke from his cigarette curling up between them like a banner. “Well? Don’t misunderstand me, Bolton. I don’t mean that you’re to leave Mr. Evans. Oh, not at all. No need for you to have a row with him or anything of the sort. No, no, you can go on exactly as you are doing. Carry out whatever he has sent you here to do. Only there will be a little understanding between us two, Bolton, and no one except ourselves will know anything about it. To prove I am in earnest, I will give you money now if you want it. Won’t you shake on it, young man?” He held out his hand with as friendly a smile as Bill had ever seen. “Well?”
“Well, just this—” Bill said evenly, “I’m not posing as a saint, but I tell you to your face I think you’re one of the lowest sorts of cads I’ve ever met. You’re not clever enough to get Mr. Evans yourself, so you come sneaking along and try to bribe one of his friends. But you’ve struck the wrong guy. You can keep your filthy money. You can offer a share of your rotten business, whatever it is, to anybody who is rotten enough to go in with you. Is that plain English, or do you want me to make it plainer?”
As if Bill had touched a button, Sanders’ face changed. Gone was his cordial air, his friendly smile. In its place, an evil look of anger and wounded pride. He had failed in his mission and he knew he had failed; but Bill could see that he wasn’t the man to take failure lying down. With an impatient gesture, Mr. Sanders flung his cigarette into the fireplace and got to his feet. White spots showed on his nostrils.
“Bolton,” he said in low, suppressed tones, “neither men nor boys trifle with me—you’ll learn that before you’re much older. I’ve given you your chance and you’ve refused to take it. Now I shall give you my orders.”
“Orders?” Bill laughed at him.
“I will give you till tomorrow night to obey my orders or the consequences for young Charlie Evans and some other people will be sudden and—er—not pleasant. By nine o’clock tomorrow evening as a deadline you will be in Gring’s Hotel, in Stamford, Connecticut. You will ask for Mr. Harold Johnson, and you will tell him exactly where Mr. Evans is to be found. When you meet Johnson, you will nod, as I have a habit of doing, and you will say ‘Zenas,’ which happens to be my first name. You will also pass Johnson your word of honor that you will quit this game for good.”
“Stamford is a long way from here,” temporized Bill.
“But you have an excellent plane at Parker’s, in Clayton.” Sanders laughed shortly. “This is not a lone hand I’m playing, Bolton. I have an organization behind me, and it is a thoroughly efficient one. What I don’t know about you, and particularly your doings since that youngster Charlie brought you his father’s message, would not be worth writing home about.”
“And if I refuse?” Bill crossed his legs and looked at him with as much insolence as he could command.
“If you refuse, Mister Midshipman Bolton, your friend Charlie, who my men caught up this morning, and the girl, Deborah, will have to take the consequences of your bullheadedness.”
Slowly Bill got to his feet. “So that’s your filthy threat, is it?” he cried. “You hold that over my head. Well, Mr. Zenas Sanders, two can play at your game!” Bill took a step forward, prepared to spring on him.
The man did not move. A smile had come back to his face, and again he gave a quick little nod.
“Look out, Bolton! Don’t do anything foolish!”
Bill followed the direction of his eyes. In the corner of the alcove, appearing between the folds of the curtain, was the long, blue-black barrel of a rifle, and it was pointed at Bill’s breast.
“You see!” sneered Sanders. “It would have paid you to become my friend. You haven’t the option now. Nine o’clock tomorrow night by the latest, at Gring’s Hotel, Bolton—or—you know the rest.”
Sanders slipped behind the curtain out of sight. At the same moment the barrel of the gun disappeared. With a cry, Bill snatched up the automatic from the table where Sanders had overlooked it, and darted into the hall.
But the hall was empty. No sound came from any part of the house.
For several minutes Bill stood still and listened. Not even a board creaked. The house was as quiet as a tomb. Of one thing he felt certain: Mr. Zenas Sanders and his bodyguard had left the place for good. There would be no more visitors tonight.
He looked at his wristwatch. It was quarter to eleven. Fifteen minutes more, and he would slip out of the back door and make his way over to Twin Heads Harbor. More than ever now, he wanted to get in touch with Ezra Parker. Two heads would be much better than one in this predicament. He must have advice. Too much hung on the decision he must make—he dared not rely on his own judgment alone. But there must be some way out of this mysterious business. Parker, that clear-headed Yankee, would be able to suggest the proper course to follow, if anybody could. The last thing to do before leaving, was to make sure that the garage was still lighted up. Parker must not fail their rendezvous.
And now Bill realized that it was no longer necessary to leave lights burning all over the house. Pocketing the small automatic which Mr. Sanders had so thoughtlessly provided, he picked up his flashlight, and set about switching off electrics in the various rooms.
Working his way through the house, he came to the butler’s pantry. Even in full sunshine it must have been depressing. With only the narrow beam of his flash to illumine it, the place was dank enough to plunge the most cheerful person into a mood of melancholy. Bill gazed at the wall with its jail-like row of keys, each bearing a small tag with the name of a room in diminutive handwriting. Above the keys was an ordinary glass frame which enclosed the indicators of bells from the rooms. It seemed as if he were watching the still heart of the house, with wires leading like bloodless arteries to the gaunt and distant chambers. Suddenly, Bill flashed his torch full upon the wall.