GREENSEA ISLAND (continued 5)

I had made up my mind to go back by the mid-day train, which gets into Torrington somewhere about two o'clock. There were several things I still wanted to buy, and, now that I was actually in town, it seemed a pity to waste such a favourable opportunity. I had no wish to get soaked through, however, so on my way down to the dining-room I gave the hall porter a sovereign and told him to go out and buy me an umbrella. He returned with a sporting-looking affair, the handle of which terminated in a bull-dog's head. Though a trifle spectacular, it was a sound article for the money, and, armed with this and my cheque book, I set off after breakfast, pleasantly determined to make a good opening in Uncle Richard's life savings.

As intentions go, it must be admitted that I was fairly successful. In addition to half a dozen things I bought for myself, I discovered in a Bond Street jeweller's a perfectly charming little emerald pendant, which struck me at once as having been obviously designed for Christine. Under the circumstances twenty-five pounds seemed to be a ridiculously cheap price, but I felt that it was unnecessary to point this out to the shopman, who appeared quite satisfied with the transaction.

Returning to the hotel with my purchases, I made an early but excellent lunch off cold duck and salad, and at a quarter to one I was steaming out through the damp squalor of East London, comfortably established in the corner seat of a first-class smoker.

It was a cheerless journey, for all the way down a driving rain beat incessantly upon the windows, and most of the landscape was blotted out by drifting clouds of mist.

At Torrington things were not much better. It was not actually raining, but the little cobble-paved market-place reeked with wet, and a depressing air of forlorn moisture brooded over the entire place.

Packing myself and my belongings into a solitary growler which was standing in the gutter, I instructed the man to take me as far as the Gunner's Arms. We plodded off, and, after half an hour's drive between dripping hedgerows, came out at last over the brow of the long slope that overlooks the estuary. I lowered the sash, and, putting my head out of the window, inspected the prospect. Down below, the roof of the inn was just visible, but the harbour itself and everything beyond was hidden under a pall of fog, which stretched like a grey shroud over the whole length of the estuary. There was something singularly sinister and desolate about the whole scene, and for a moment I felt a pang of regret for the comfortable billiard-room which I had so recently quitted.

We came to a halt on the quay in front of the inn, deserted for once by its usual sprinkling of boatmen and barge hands. Our arrival had been observed, however, for scarcely had we pulled up when I saw the small figure of Jimmy emerge from the stable door and come hurrying down the yard towards us. He touched his damp curls with a cheerful grin of welcome.

"I reckoned it was you, guv'nor," he remarked "You ain't bin away long, an' that's a fact."

"Quite long enough, Jimmy," I returned. "At all events, you've had time to mess up the weather."

He took the bag which I handed out, and at the same time cast a rather disgusted glance into the surrounding gloom.

"It's a treat, ain't it!" he observed. "Come on like this yes'day afternoon." Then, drawing a little nearer, he added in a lowered voice: "There's a letter for you at the 'ouse, guv'nor. The young laidy give it me laite las' night, an' I took it across at once—saime as you told me."

I tried to cover my unseemly elation by lighting a cigarette. "Where did you meet her?" I enquired.

"She come down to the quay. I see 'er standin' there in the dark, an' I says to me self, As like as not she's wantin' me. So I just slips over alongside of 'er, an' without sayin' nothin' she shoves the letter in my 'and and orf she goes."

I looked at him gratefully. "You're a stout fellow, James," I said "I knew I could depend on you directly I saw you."

He waited until I had paid the cabman, and then, shouldering my bag, accompanied me to the boat.

"I seen 'er again since then," he continued confidentially. "I was comin' along Duke's Laine about 'alf an hour ago, an' she was waitin' to go aboard the doctor's barge."

I stopped short with a very distinct shock.

"Are you sure about that?" I demanded

He nodded a little scornfully. "Dead certain, guv'nor. There ain't no one else you'd mistake for 'er—not round these parts."

"But how do you know she was waiting to go on the barge?" I persisted.

"Why, I 'eard 'er call out, and I seed the doctor comin' orf to fetch 'er. I reckon she's there now—that's to say, if 'e ain't put 'er ashore again."

I said nothing further, but walked on to the boat in anything but a happy state of mind. The thought of Christine boxed up alone in the fog with those two scoundrels filled me with a horrible sense of uneasiness. Knowing her mistrust for Manning, and having seen something of the relations between them, I felt that only the strongest reasons would have induced her to take such a step.

It was possible, of course, that she had explained her action in the letter which she had given to Jimmy. If that were the case, the quicker I got back to the house the sooner my anxiety would be relieved, so without wasting any time I unshipped the oars and started off on my journey down the creek.

The tide was slack when we reached the mouth; and trusting to luck, for one could see only a few feet ahead, I cut straight across the estuary, and came out triumphantly almost exactly alongside the landing-stage.

Before stepping ashore I handed Jimmy a well-earned ten bob in return for his services. Then, with my bag in my hand, I strode forward through the mist and entered the narrow path which ran up through the shrubbery to the garden.

As I crossed the lawn and approached the house I noticed with some surprise that the front door was standing open. I was just thinking that it was rather unlike Bascomb to be so casual when I suddenly heard the sound of footsteps coming round the corner of the drive. I pulled up where I was, and the next moment the square, burly figure of my retainer loomed into view.

I was about to make some remark, but, whatever it was, the words remained unspoken. One glance at Bascomb's face was quite sufficient to drive everything else clean out of my head.

"Good God!" I exclaimed. "What's the matter?"

He stood there, glaring at me with sullen, blood-shot eyes—a silent and menacing figure in the mist. Then, taking a step forward, he laid his hand on my arm.

"You come along o' me," he said hoarsely. "I got something to show you."

Turning on his heel, he led the way round the corner of the house. Without saying anything further I followed him along the path until we reached the back garden, where with equal abruptness he came to a sudden standstill. Then, raising his hand, he pointed towards a dim, motionless heap, which was just visible in the centre of the lawn.

"There you are," he muttered. "You go an' look at that."

Two strides brought me to the spot, and a wicked oath broke from my lips as I stared down at the sight in front of me. It was the huge body of Satan, stretched out stiff and dead on the wet grass.

CHAPTER TWELVE

For several seconds I remained still, without speaking. The wave of grief and anger that swept through me left me sick and shaken; I could only stand there with clenched hands waiting until I could control my voice.

"Who did it, Bascomb?" I said at last.

He came up to me, and, bad as I felt myself, I was almost shocked by the sight of his face. It was like a horrible grey mask, twisted and distorted with passion.

"Who d'yer think?" he demanded hoarsely. "There's only one devil in the world who'd go fur to do a thing like that." He sank down on his knees beside the body, and, sliding his hand under the big head, lifted it tenderly from the grass.

"You mean Manning?" The words came out mechanically. I knew the answer before I uttered them.

"Aye!" he muttered savagely; "that's who I mean. It was Mannin' right enough—the blarsted, poisonin' 'ound." Very slowly he laid down his burden and got up again on to his feet. "I'll be even with 'im for this," he added in a choking voice. "You mark my words. I'll be even with 'im for this or my name ain't John Bascomb."

"When did it happen?" I asked.

He stared at me, as if only half understanding the question.

"When did it 'appen?" he repeated. "Why, las' night 'about eleven o'clock. 'E were alive an' well at the 'alf hour—that I can swear to. I was in the kitchen, an' I seen 'im pass the window—seen 'im with me own eyes. I can't say exac'ly 'ow long arter it was when I went to the back door; mebbe a matter o' five an' twenty minutes. Any'ow, there 'e was, stretched out on the path, too bad even to make a sound. Crawled back 'ome to die, 'e 'ad, pore beggar, an' me inside not knowin' nothin' about it."

His voice trembled, and, raising the back of his hand, he brushed it roughly across his eyes.

I wetted my lips, which were dry as leather.

"If Manning did this—" I began.

Bascomb turned on me with glowing eyes.

"You'll leave 'im to me," he said. "This is my job, this is; an' no one ain't comin' in between us—not till I've finished with 'im."

I saw that the man was half off his head with rage, and I felt that for the present the best thing was to leave him to himself. In the mood we were both in any further discussion would probably only end in an explosion.

"We must bury the body at all events," I said shortly. "If you want any help in digging the grave you will find me in the house."

I walked towards the back door, my mind still in a turmoil of emotion, and, crossing the kitchen, made my way through into the hall. The place was dark and cheerless, and in a mechanical fashion I struck a match and set a light to the fire. Then, pulling up an easy chair, I flung myself down, and stared at the crackling sticks.

I suppose it ought to have been obvious from the first that an attempt might be made to poison Satan, but somehow or other the possibility had never entered my mind. The dastardly act had come on me as a complete surprise, and in the first rush of anger and indignation I found it difficult to collect my thoughts. That Bascomb was right in his suspicions, however, I felt convinced, though I had no more evidence than he had in support of my belief. There was a cold-blooded ruthlessness about the whole thing which pointed clearly to Manning, and such a passion of hatred for him swept through me that for a moment I felt almost stifled.

What new threat, I asked myself, lurked behind this apparently wanton piece of spite? It was utterly unlike Manning to show his hand so clearly, unless driven to it by the most urgent reasons. He must have realised that, however easily deceived I might be, Bascomb would at once pitch on him as the author of the crime, I might or might not accept the latter's opinion, but it was at least probable that my suspicions would be aroused and that I should take prompt steps to try and find out the truth.

That he would run such a risk through sheer malice was a thing that I declined to believe. It was much more likely that he was fixing up some new and devilish plan, in which the removal of Satan was the first and perhaps the most essential step. Now that this was accomplished he was not likely to waste time, for every hour that he delayed would only add to the danger of discovery. I felt that I must act, and act quickly, but what the deuce I ought to do was another and more baffling question.

In my perplexity I suddenly remembered Bobby. A letter to Harwich would reach him first post in the morning, and unless he was up to his neck in work he would probably be with me by mid-day. I didn't want to bother him unnecessarily, but things seemed to be approaching a crisis, and if that were the case his advice and help would b& simply invaluable.

I jumped up from my chair with the intention of writing him a note at once. As I turned towards the desk, my eyes fell upon a letter which was lying on the further side of the centre table. Even at that distance I recognised Christine's hand, and at the same instant the recollection of my talk with Jimmy rushed back into my mind.

In a second I had crossed the room and picked up the envelope. Carrying it to the window, I tore open the flap, and with feverish haste pulled out its contents. There was a single sheet of notepaper, closely covered on both sides with small but very legible writing.

"I know that you have gone to London, but I am not sure how long you intend to stay, or when you will get this letter. Anyhow, it will be waiting for you as soon as you reach the house.

"I had to write to you or see you. I feel certain that something has happened—something that fills me with terrible fear for your safety. If I knew what it was I would tell you; I believe it must be connected with Dr. Manning's visit to the island, but that is only what I think, and I may be wrong.

"I am absolutely sure, however, that at any moment you may be in the greatest possible danger. Please don't think that I am silly or fanciful in writing to you like this. You must know by now the kind of people you have to deal with, and surely you will understand that I shouldn't have sent you this second warning without some very real and serious reason for it.

"Whatever happens, don't under any circumstances allow yourself to be alone on the island. I believe that your man Bascomb is honest, but it would be better if you were to have your naval friend with you as well. Above all, be careful of Dr. Manning. Pay no attention to any suggestion he makes, and mistrust everything he says or does.

"If there is any further way in which I can help you I will do so. Should you want to send me a message, give it to the boy at the inn. My uncle has gone away for two days, so I shall have no difficulty in getting down to the quay in the evening.

"You are not to worry about me. I am in no danger myself, and I implore you to think only of your own safety.

"CHRISTINE DE RODA."

I read it hurriedly to the end, and then with a strange pleasure I turned back and went through it a second time. It was just such a letter as I should have expected her to write. Mysterious and reticent as it was, there shone through every line an honesty and personal courage which confirmed all I had felt about her ever since our adventure at Leixoes.

Of one thing there could be no doubt. Whatever had prompted her to send me this note, she had evidently been ignorant of the brutal plan to poison Satan. Had she known she would certainly have given me some warning, even if de Roda himself had been a party to the scheme.

On that point, however, I had already and perhaps quite unreasonably made up my mind. Nothing but the clearest evidence would shake my belief that it was Manning's work, and that in all probability he had arranged and carried out the whole thing for some purpose of his own. More than ever I felt convinced that he was playing a double part; that de Roda, though no doubt originally the moving spirit, was now merely a tool in the hands of a much cleverer man than himself.

Once more I glanced at Christine's letter. Her urgent pleading that I would take the matter seriously was not really needed; I should have done that even if the dead body of Satan had not been lying on the grass outside. I knew well that it was no vague or imaginary peril which had led a girl of her sense to send me this additional warning—a step, which, for anything she might say to the contrary, must have been fraught with considerable personal danger.

The last consideration, indeed, was much the most disturbing factor as far as I was concerned. I was in no mood to worry about my own safety when it was more than possible that, owing to her efforts to help me, Christine might be exposing herself to all sorts of horrible risks. People who don't hesitate to attempt murder are apt to take a particularly unpleasant view of anything which they regard as treachery. Of course de Roda was her uncle, but he looked the kind of fanatic who would attach precious little importance to family affection if it began to interfere with the success of his schemes. Besides, according to the letter, de Roda was away. In his absence Manning was presumably in charge of operations, and the mere thought of Christine finding herself in the power of that gentleman was sufficient to send a chill down the small of my back.

Suppose he had discovered that she was in communication with me! It was unlikely, but unlikely things do happen in this world, and, in spite of all our precautions, the secret might have leaked out. In view of what I had seen outside "The Laurels" my feelings can be easily understood, for he was just the sort of devil to make use of a chance like this without compunction and without mercy.

I crumpled the letter in my hand, and thrust it into my pocket. Whatever had induced Christine to visit the barge, the idea of her shut up in that lonely cabin with no one else but Manning on board was utterly unbearable. A frantic longing to do something rose up inside me, and, walking to the window, I stared out into the drifting mist.

I had stood there for perhaps thirty seconds when a really inspired notion suddenly dawned on me. In a fog like this nothing would be visible on the water more than a few yards away. If I were careful about it there was no earthly reason why I should not get into my boat and row up as far as the barge in perfect security. No matter how sharp a look-out was kept, I should be practically alongside before anyone could give the alarm.

Almost as soon as the idea came into my head I had made up my mind. So strongly, indeed, did it attract me that I did not even stop to consider what I should do when I reached my destination. I could think about that while I was in the boat. The main thing was to get started without wasting any more valuable time.

In spite of my eagerness to be off, I first of all sat down at my desk and scribbled a note to Bobby. It had to be posted at Pen Mill before six o'clock or else it would not be delivered in Harwich until mid-day, and in that case he would very probably be out of the office. I made no attempt to explain things, however; I merely told him that I was in need of his help, and that if he could manage to get down to Greensea the next day I should be uncommonly glad to see him.

I was just fastening up the envelope when I saw Bascomb go past the window. I called out to him from where I was sitting, and he stepped in through the open doorway. He was carrying a heavy garden spade.

"Where are you going to dig the grave?" I asked him.

He jerked his head toward the back of the house. "'Longside o' the shed," he answered. "I can see it there from the kitchen window."

He spoke as though the prospect of being continually reminded of the crime afforded him a kind of sullen satisfaction.

"I am going ashore to post a letter," I said. "I mean to get to the bottom of this infernal business, and I've asked Commander Dean to come here to-morrow. I think he may be able to help us."

Bascomb looked at me more strangely than ever.

"It's likely enough," he remarked. "That's to say, if there's any 'elp wanted."

He shouldered the spade as he spoke, and, stepping out on to the path, walked off silently round the corner of the house. His manner was so peculiar that for a moment I felt an uncomfortable doubt as to whether he were in his right senses. I was too anxious about Christine to worry over anything else, however, and, following him to the door, I hastily secured the bolts and made sure that the windows were properly fastened. Then, snatching up a cap from my travelling bag, I left the house by the back door.

The mist seemed thicker than ever when I came out into the garden. I climbed the wet rail which led into the shrubbery, and, having groped my way through the bushes, I struck off down the path in the direction of the water.

A few minutes' walk brought me to the boathouse, where, by gently coaxing the rusty lock, I managed to open the door without making any unnecessary noise.

The next job was to find something with which to muffle the oars. A glance round showed me exactly what I needed—a large piece of cotton waste that was hanging from a nail just inside the threshold. I tore this in two, and with the aid of some string soon accomplished my purpose. Then, pushing off quietly, I drifted out into the mist.

It was just low water, and the young tide was already running up the estuary. I knew its strength from bitter experience, so, keeping the nose of my boat well into the current, I set off hopefully on what I imagined to be the right course.

I was not far out in my reckoning, for, after about ten minutes' steady rowing, I found myself approaching a mud flat, which I recognised at once as being slightly to the east of the creek. I allowed the current to carry me down as far as the entrance, and a few moments later the rough wall of the jetty loomed into view on my left-hand side.

There was no sign of anyone about, a circumstance that was hardly surprising in view of the close proximity of the Gunner's Arms. I ferried along till I reached the nearest post, where I shipped my oars and made the boat fast. Then, climbing ashore, I started off carefully down the slippery causeway.

I got to the pillar-box, which was just alongside the inn, without meeting a soul. The knowledge that my letter was safely posted gave me a distinct feeling of relief, and, retracing my steps as quickly as possible, I was soon back in the dinghy and pulling off again down the creek.

So far all was well, but as I drifted round the point into the open water, I began to realize what a difficult job I had in front of me. In the first place, it was quite conceivable that I was on a fool's errand. Notwithstanding my fears, Christine might be in no need of my assistance, and if that were the case my sudden appearance on the scene would be about the most embarrassing ordeal I could possible inflict on her. This was an unfortunate fact that had to be faced, however; the only question was how to make certain that she was safe without giving away the whole affair.

My strongest card was the one which had been thoughtfully provided by Manning himself. His last words had been a pressing invitation that I would come and see him on the barge as soon as I got back from London, and he could hardly blame me if I happened to select a particularly awkward moment for calling. Much as he might object to my visit, he would find it uncommonly difficult to invent any reasonable excuse for not asking me on board.

What I chiefly dreaded was the possibility that Christine might betray herself before she could recover from her surprise. In that event any further pretence on my part would be useless; Manning would at once guess the truth, or something very near it, and what the consequences might be God alone knew. Was I asking too much in making such a demand upon a girl's courage and coolness? It was a trial from which very few people would emerge successfully, but then I had had ample proof in Leixoes harbour that Christine's nerve was of no ordinary quality. Her self-possession on that occasion had been truly delightful, and though she would now be up against a much more severe test I had a kind of inward conviction that I could still depend upon her. Anyhow, there was no way of avoiding the risk unless I abandoned my purpose, an alternative on which I declined to waste even a moment's consideration.

All this time the tide was carrying me steadily up the estuary, my own efforts being confined to keeping the boat as near the shore as possible without losing the drift of the current. I made no attempt at rowing, for, anxious as I was to reach the barge, I was afraid that if Craill happened to be on deck the muffled creak of my rowlocks would probably attract his attention. I wanted my arrival to be absolutely unexpected, so that I could seize the chance of getting on board before anyone was prepared to dispute my purpose.

Now that the critical moment was approaching I felt as cool as a cucumber. Nothing steadies me like the prospect of immediate action, and, although my hatred of Manning was as bitter as ever, it no longer clouded or distorted my mind. It had, indeed, precisely the opposite effect, bracing all my faculties to their clearest and sharpest pitch.

I drifted along, listening intently, and keeping a constant look-out over my shoulder. I knew by the curve of the shore that I must be getting pretty near my goal, for just below where the barge lay the estuary made a slight turn to the north.

Suddenly, a few feet ahead of me, I caught sight of a shadowy anchor chain, rising from the water and stretching away into the gloom. I was so close that in another second I should have been on top of it, but a timely dig with my left-hand scull just saved me from this calamity. Almost simultaneously the black outline of the barge towered up above my head, and, gliding round the big blunt bow, I came quietly alongside an empty dinghy which was bobbing about on its painter at the foot of the accommodation ladder.

For a couple of seconds I remained perfectly still, gripping tight hold of the dinghy's gunwale, and staring up at the railing above me. I half expected to see Craill's ugly face come peering over the top, for if he were on deck he must have heard the splash which I had made in trying to avoid the chain. No such apparition materialised, however, and with a slight pull at the painter I drew into the side and rapidly hitched up my boat. The next moment I had mounted the ladder and was safely on board.

As far as I could see, I appeared to have the whole place to myself. It was very unlike an ordinary barge, for both fore and aft a high "coach-house" roof had been built up above the deck, so as to provide the cabins below with further light and head room. Between the two, and right in front of where I was standing, a broad companion-way led down to the interior.

I advanced on tiptoe, keeping a watchful eye on the fo'c'sle, from which quarter I still feared that at any moment Craill might make an inconvenient appearance. I had taken about three steps when a sudden and unexpected noise brought me to a dead stop. It was a queer sound, as though a small but heavily laden table had been violently overturned. I stood quite still, listening intently; then, faint but clear enough to send the blood racing through my heart, came the half-stifled cry of a woman's voice.

One stride forward brought me to the edge of the companion-way, and, clearing the short flight of steps with a single leap, I found myself facing a closed door which apparently led through into the cabins. It swung open as I turned the handle, revealing a narrow passage, with another door at the end. On the farther side of this a scuffle of some sort seemed to be taking place, and a voice which I recognised as Manning's rose plainly above the confused jumble of sounds.

If there were a championship for sprinting up corridors, I think I should have some claim to be the holder. Anyhow, I covered the distance in considerably less time than it takes to write the words, and, wrenching round the brass knob with a savage jerk, applied the full force of my shoulder to the panel. Instead of being locked, as I expected, the door flew back suddenly on its hinges. How I saved myself from falling I don't know; I can only imagine that the sight which met my eyes momentarily stiffened every muscle and sinew in my body.

Amid a debris of broken cups and plates Christine and Manning were struggling together in the centre of the cabin. He had gripped her in his arms, and, in spite of the efforts she was making to free herself, he was pressing fierce kisses upon her face and neck. Beside them on the carpet sprawled an overturned tea-table, with one leg sticking up grotesquely in the air.

I had only the briefest glimpse of what was happening, for at the noise of my entrance the tableau broke up abruptly. Manning raised his head with a swift, astonished glance; and then, releasing his hold, took a step backwards. Freed in this unexpected fashion, Christine for an instant seemed to be on the point of collapsing. By a great effort of will she was just able to reach the arm of the sofa, where she stood panting and exhausted, her eyes fixed on me in a kind of half-incredulous fear.

"You must forgive me if I am intruding, Manning," I said. "You asked me to look you up, and I have taken you at your word."

Even at that moment the man's extraordinary coolness never deserted him. Whatever thoughts and emotions were passing through his mind, he seemed, after that first glance of surprise, to accept the situation with perfect composure.

"I am afraid you have chosen rather an unfortunate time," he replied. "If you would care to come back in half an hour I should be charmed. At present I have another visitor."

"So I see," was my answer. "And, if you want to know, that is precisely the reason why I intend to stop."

Manning's curious blue eyes narrowed dangerously.

"I don't quite understand," he observed in his silkiest voice.

"It's very simple," I assured him. "This lady, whoever she is, seems to have mistaken you for a gentleman." I turned to Christine. "I hope I am not being officious," I added, "but if there is any way in which I can be of use, please consider me entirely at your service."

She rose to the occasion with all the quickness and courage that I had expected.

"If it's not troubling you too much," she said quietly, "I should certainly be obliged if you would row me to the shore."

Manning stepped forward, addressing himself directly to her. His manner was politeness itself, but there was no misunderstanding the veiled threat behind his words.

"For various reasons," he said, "I think you had better allow me that privilege."

I saw that Christine was hesitating, so I gave her no chance to reply.

"I expect you know your way up on to the deck," I remarked. "If you will excuse me I will be with you almost immediately."

For a second she still wavered. Then with the slightest possible bow she crossed the cabin, and passed out silently into the passage. I closed the door behind her.

Only once before in my life, when Bobby and I sighted our first German submarine, have I felt the same peculiar sensation with which I turned round and faced Manning. He stood where he was, an amused and half-mocking smile playing round the corners of his mouth.

"You mustn't let me detain you, Mr. Dryden," he said. "I am sure you are full of the noblest sentiments, but it would be a pity to keep the lady waiting."

If his intention was to make me lose my temper it went woefully astray.

"I shan't be long," I replied. "I am only going to give you a damned good hiding."

I was looking straight at him as I spoke, and I saw the lightning glance with which he measured his distance from a small oak sideboard that was clamped against the wall.

"That's the worst of you primitive people," he drawled slowly, "you always—" Then suddenly his eyes travelled past me to the door, and a harsh, exulting cry broke from his lips.

"Go on, Craill," he shouted; "let him have it."

With most men the trick would probably have succeeded, but I was too old a hand to be caught in that time-honoured fashion. As he sprang for the sideboard I hurled myself after him, and at the very second that he wrenched open the drawer my fist crashed home full in his face. He lurched wildly backwards, and, stumbling over the corner of the mat, fetched up against the wall with a thud that shook the cabin.

Of the next two minutes I have a glorious but slightly confused recollection. All the rage which I had been bottling up inside me seemed to break loose at that first blow, and with a red mist in front of my eyes I leaped in to finish the business.

Whatever else Manning might be, he was game to the last inch. Hopelessly cornered, with blood streaming down his face, he yet fought back at me like a trapped and maddened wolf. He fought, too, with all the skill of a trained boxer, but science and courage were little use against the mad fury which had suddenly taken possession of me.

Keeping him pinned against the wall, I smashed home punch after punch without even troubling to guard myself. No one could stand up long under such a hail of punishment, and although he managed to land one or two blows there was not sufficient force in them to have any effect on me. At last, with a terrific right-hand jolt just below the heart, I sent him staggering sideways. He made a desperate attempt to recover, but, seizing the chance, I let him have my left bang on the point of the jaw, and down he went on to the carpet—a sprawling bundle of arms and legs.

For a moment I stood there breathing heavily, my whole being aflame with savage satisfaction. Stretched out motionless on his back, Manning presented a pretty ghastly spectacle, but there was not a spark of pity for him in my heart as I stared down into his battered and bleeding face. Christine's cry for help, and the thought of poor Satan creeping back alone to die in the darkness, were still vividly in my mind, and, turning away, I strode across towards the open drawer in the oak sideboard.

As I expected, the first thing I saw on looking inside was a revolver. It was a Smith and Wesson of the heaviest service pattern, and on taking it out I found that every chamber was loaded. I wondered grimly what my fate would have been if Manning had succeeded in reaching the drawer a second earlier. Possibly he had only meant to protect himself, but in any case the weapon would certainly be safer in my possession than in his, so, slipping it into my pocket, I strolled back to where I had left him.

Just as I came up he gave a deep groan and opened his eyes.

"Oh," I said, "you're recovering, are you?"

He gazed at me vaguely, as if only half understanding my words; then in a sudden rush the full memory of what had happened seemed to return to him, and with a painful effort he raised himself up on one elbow.

"Next time you want to insult a girl," I suggested, "you had better see that the cabin door is properly locked."

Lifting his sleeve, he tried to wipe away some of the blood which was trickling down his face.

"I always thought you were a fool, Dryden," he said in a faint voice. "Now I am sure of it." With great difficulty he struggled up a little farther, and sank back against the wall.

"I know a damned cad when I see one, anyhow," I replied. "Not that it needed much intelligence in the present case." I walked to the door, and, pausing on the threshold, took out the revolver. "You will forgive my borrowing this," I added. "I don't want to be shot in the back as I leave the barge."

His blue eyes fixed themselves on mine with a cat-like malevolence.

"You might have a worse ending," he said softly. "I am not a very safe person to quarrel with."

There was a venom in his tone which spoke volumes as to his sincerity, but unless it was intended to frighten me the warning was a little superfluous.

"I shan't grumble at the bill," I replied. "I am always ready to pay well, especially when I have really enjoyed myself."

Then, turning the handle, I stepped out into the passage, and closed the door behind me.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I found Christine standing on the deck at the head of the companion-way.

She looked terribly pale, and as I approached she started towards me with a little sob of relief.

"Oh, thank God!" she whispered. "Thank God you're safe!"

She took my hands, and a low cry escaped her at the sight of their scarred and bleeding knuckles.

"It's nothing, darling," I said reassuringly. "That's only a little blood from Manning's nose. He's got plenty left to go on with."

With something between a laugh and another sob she let her head sink forward against my shoulder. "Don't think me a coward. I—I'm not one really. It was just having to wait here and——"

"A coward!" I interrupted. "Why, I think you're the bravest girl that ever stepped this earth."

I put my arms round her, and for one dear moment she lay there passive and still, like a tired, contented child.

Then, suddenly releasing herself, she gazed round in a kind of startled panic.

"But we mustn't stay here," she exclaimed hurriedly. "We must go at once."

"I suppose you're right," I admitted with some reluctance. "What's happened to that ruffian Craill?"

"He went off in the other boat just after I arrived. He might come back at any moment."

"Well, I want to see him," I said; "but I don't think I'll wait now. It's a pity to cram all one's pleasures into one afternoon."

She laid her hands pleadingly on my sleeve. "Do what I ask," she begged. "Promise me you will go straight back to the island as soon as you have taken me ashore?"

"I am not going to take you ashore," I said. "You are coming home with me."

She made a quick gesture of protest, but I went on without giving her time to answer.

"There's no other way out of it," I said, speaking with the utmost seriousness. "After what's happened this afternoon you have simply got to tell me the truth. Don't you see, dear, you and I are in this together, and unless I know——"

"Yes, yes," she interrupted breathlessly, "I must tell you; I had already made up my mind to do it." She paused in piteous hesitation. "I daren't come to the island, though," she added; "if anyone saw us——"

"No one can possibly see us," I objected. "It's a hundred times safer than any other place. We can talk comfortably there, and I can row you ashore afterwards and land you wherever you like. This fog's not going to lift for another twenty-four hours."

I don't think I really convinced her; she seemed to give in to my will through utter weariness.

"Perhaps you're right," she faltered. "I can't argue with you anyhow. I—I'm too tired."

With a sudden remorse for my lack of consideration, I helped her tenderly down the ladder. Everything in the dinghy was soaking, and, in spite of her remonstrances, I insisted on removing my coat and spreading it on the wet seat.

"I won't try and talk to you while I'm rowing," I said. "There's a pretty stiff stream running, and I shall want all my energy to get back to the island. Besides, the quieter we keep the better."

She nodded her head to show that she understood, and, having cast off the painter, I took my place at the oars.

The first few strokes were a bit painful on account of my damaged knuckles, which started bleeding afresh the moment I closed my hands. They soon ceased to smart, however; and, keeping the same course as before, I plugged steadily along, until the mouth of the creek opened up dimly on my left-hand side. A short but strenuous battle with the current brought me safely across to the landing-stage, where I grabbed hold of the chain and waved a triumphant greeting to Christine.

"Welcome!" I said "Welcome to Greensea Island!"

She smiled back at me, such a wan, pathetic little smile that I impulsively leaned over and pressed her hand.

"My own dear," I whispered, "you have just got to be happy. Remember, you are coming home for the first time."

I felt her fingers squeeze mine gently in return; then with a sudden trace of shyness she pushed them away and got up quickly from her seat.

"You must be wet through," she said, "and as for your poor coat—" She held it up with an expression of penitent dismay. "You will have to go and change everything directly we get to the house."

"Oh, it won't hurt me," I protested. "I've been drenched so often that I can't catch a cold even if I try."

I steadied the boat while she stepped out, and then, jumping ashore myself, led the way forward in the direction of the shrubbery.

As we entered the path, and the gloom of the trees closed in about us, she slipped her arm through mine.

"It's not a very cheerful place, is it?" she said with a slight shiver.

"Don't judge us too quickly," I returned. "Wait till we reach the house. Things will seem quite different as soon as you've had a cup of tea."

She smiled again, this time a little more happily, and without any further attempt at talking I piloted her through the rest of the shrubbery and opened the iron gate which led on to the lawn. The vague outline of the roof and chimneys were just visible opposite.

"That's my ancestral home," I said. "Unfortunately it's not looking its best to-day."

Christine made no reply; she had let go my arm and stood quite still beside me, gazing ahead into the mist with a strange and eager interest.

"One mustn't grumble though," I added philosophically. "After all, if it wasn't for the fog you wouldn't be here."

We set out across the grass, and, just as we were approaching the verandah, I suddenly remembered that I had bolted the front door on the inside. I did not want to take Christine to the back entrance, for fear that she might catch sight of Bascomb digging the grave. It would be a gruesome discovery to run up against unexpectedly, especially for anyone whose nerves were already strained almost beyond the point of endurance.

"If you don't mind waiting here a couple of seconds," I said, "I'll slip round and let you in. The place is locked up, and my man will probably be out in the garden."

"I shall be all right," she said. "It was only the trees that made me fed a little creepy."

Leaving her where she was, I hurried along the verandah, and turned off down the side walk which led past the kitchen window. Directly I got round the corner I heard the sound of Bascomb's spade, but it was not until I was within a few feet of him that his figure suddenly emerged from the mist. He was standing beside a large hole, peering forward in the direction of the path.

"How are you getting on?" I asked, pulling up short.

"It's pretty nigh finished," he answered slowly. "I've put 'im down deep, so as 'e can lie quiet without bein' shifted."

I looked over into the grave, which was already partly filled in.

"Well, there's no need to hurry," I said. "I've brought someone back with me, but we shan't want anything except a cup of tea, and I can get that myself."

If he felt any curiosity about my guest he certainly did not show it.

"Aye," he remarked indifferently. "You won't 'ave no trouble about that. The kettle's on the fire, an' there's a jug o' milk in the larder."

He turned to his work again, and, resuming my way to the back of the house, I passed in through the kitchen.

I took a strange delight in opening the front door and seeing Christine step in over the threshold. At that moment everything about her seemed to become real to me in a way that it had never been before. I had a sort of feeling that we had suddenly escaped from some fantastic melodrama, and were alone together in the actual world for the first time.

She looked round, an almost childish pleasure in her brown eyes.

"It's charming," she exclaimed. "It's the kind of room one would never want to go out of."

"That's how it strikes me just at present," I said. "Come and sit down in front of the fire. You'll have time to get nice and dry while I make the tea."

She crossed the room, and, sinking down with a little sigh of contentment in one of the easy chairs, stretched out her hands towards the hearth.

For a second or two I stood watching her, too happy to move; then, wrenching my mind back to practical affairs, I started off unwillingly towards the kitchen.

It did not take me long to collect what I wanted. The kettle was already full of hot water, as Bascomb had told me, and while it was boiling I wandered into the larder, and ran to earth an appetising looking cake and a new tin of dessert biscuits. Returning with my spoils, I filled up the teapot, and then, having set everything out on a tray, I carried it carefully into the hall.

Christine examined the result of my labours with evident approval.

"I'm so glad you've got a good tea," she said. "I've had nothing to eat since breakfast."

"In that case," I answered, "we'll feed first and talk afterwards. One can't be empty and eloquent at the same time."

I sat down beside her and took control of the proceedings, sternly insisting upon her carrying out my orders. It was not until she had finished her third cup and successfully demolished two large slices of cake that I would listen to the faintest protest, by which time the colour had come back into her cheeks, and she was looking an altogether different being.

"That's splendid," I remarked approvingly. "Now you shall have a cigarette, and I'll tell you how it was that I happened to come butting in just at the right moment. You had better let me explain first; then we shall know exactly where we are."

She nodded her agreement, and, accepting a cigarette from the case which I offered her, sank back again in the chair with her head against the cushions.

I was much too impatient for her side of the story to waste any unnecessary words over my own. At the same time I felt it was vital to omit nothing which might be of real importance, so I began with a rapid description of Manning's visit to the island.

I told her all about our midnight adventures in the hall, and of how he had made a special point of my coming to see him on the barge; then, after explaining the reason for my sudden trip to London, I gave her a short but faithful account of everything that had happened since.

It was easy to see from the look of indignant horror in her eyes that she had known nothing about the death of Satan. She listened to me, however, in absolute silence, her face alone betraying the intense interest with which she was following every syllable. Even when I had finished she still sat there for a moment without speaking, as though trying to puzzle out the full significance of all she had just heard. At last she straightened herself in the chair, and threw away the half-smoked cigarette which she had been holding between her fingers.

"I have treated you very unfairly," she said in a low voice. "I ought to have told you the truth that day at Shalston. If anything had happened to you it would have been entirely my fault."

"Oh, that's nonsense," I declared. "You're not responsible for your relations any more than I am. Providence just dumped them on us, and we've got to make the best of it."

There was a moment's pause.

"I wonder how much you have guessed," she said. "I wonder if you have any idea of my uncle's real reasons for coming to England."

"I've got some notions on the subject," I admitted. "They're a little muddled, because I can't quite fit in our friend Dr. Manning. For a comparative stranger he appears to have rather an important part in the show."

With the shadow of a smile on her lips she leaned forward.

"If you tell me what you know," she said, "the rest will be easier for me to explain."

"Well, from what I've gathered one way and another," I began, "I should say that it was the late lamented Mr. Richard Jannaway who was responsible for the whole trouble. He was always a bad hat; in fact, the only decent thing he ever did in his life was to die without making a will. I know he was in South America for years, and it looks to me as if he'd managed to run up pretty badly against your uncle. He probably played the old boy some dog's trick, and Señor de Roda, being a gentleman of spirit, naturally determined to get level with him. Unless I'm much mistaken, that's how it is that you come to be sitting here at the present moment."

She nodded encouragingly.

"Now I begin to lose my bearings," I confessed. "How Manning shoved himself in is a point that's been worrying me ever since I saw you together outside 'The Laurels.' I made certain at first that he must be working for your uncle, but when you told me that neither of you had met him until you arrived in England I didn't know what on earth to think. I've turned it over pretty thoroughly since then, and I've come to the conclusion that there must be some secret about Greensea which is distinctly worth knowing. It's my belief that Manning got on to the track of it while he was staying on the island. He probably discovered that you were mixed up with it too, and for reasons of his own he decided to join forces. I've no doubt that he's playing a double game, and I shouldn't wonder if you both shared my opinion. It was probably a case of your having no choice in the matter. When you found out how much he knew you had to take him into partnership, whether you liked it or not."

Christine pushed the hair off her forehead, and looked at me with a curious expression.

"It's really rather extraordinary," she said slowly. "If you were a wizard or a fortune teller or something of that sort, you could hardly have got nearer the truth."

I acknowledged her compliment with a slight bow.

"Thank you," I said; "you've restored my self-respect. Dr. Manning told me I was a fool, and I should have been horribly depressed if I thought you shared his opinion."

"Dr. Manning thinks everyone is a fool except himself," she answered. "It's the only mistake I have ever known him to make."

"Most clever scoundrels have the same delusion," I assured her. "That's what keeps half the criminal barristers in practice."

Christine lit another cigarette, and sat for a moment staring into the fire, as if trying to arrange her thoughts. At last she turned towards me.

"Do you know that your uncle once went under the name of Stephen Gardiner?" she asked.

"No," I said, "I didn't know, but I can quite believe it. I should think he was the sort of gentleman who had probably had half a dozen names." I paused. "Where did you come across him first?" I asked.

"At Rio, two years before the war," she answered.

"What, Rio in Brazil?" I asked

She nodded. "We were living there then. My uncle had a big ranch about twenty miles outside the town, and of course he knew nearly everybody. At that time the whole of Brazil was in a frightful state of dissatisfaction. There was a great deal of feeling against the President, Gomez, who had been in for years and years, and Uncle Philip was one of the leading people who were trying to turn him out. It was through this that he and your uncle became friends."

"But what on earth had my uncle got to do with it?" I demanded. "He was an Englishman and a stranger, and I should think he must have had a pretty rotten reputation even then."

"I can't tell you that," she said. "I was only sixteen, and naturally they didn't talk about things in front of me. I suppose that somehow or other he had managed to make himself useful to them; anyhow, I know they all trusted him absolutely."

"They seem to have been a nice confiding lot," I observed. "I wouldn't mind betting they paid for it too."

She smiled mirthlessly. "Yes," she said, "they paid for it. I daresay you remember what happened; there must have been some account in the English papers."

I shook my head. "I wasn't reading the papers just then," I explained. "I was chasing about the Pacific learning to be a sailor."

"Everything that we had planned was betrayed to the Government," she said fiercely. "There was to be a general rising in Rio early one morning while the soldiers were asleep in their barracks. It was almost certain that if our people could seize the public buildings and capture the President the whole thing would be practically over. A great many of the troops were friendly, and the rest would have been quiet enough as soon as they heard that Gomez was a prisoner. That was only part of the plot, however. About a hundred miles up the Amazon there's a place called Cinatti. It's close to two or three big diamond mines which belong to the Government, and all the stones are collected and sorted there before they come down to Rio. Our people had found out through one of the sorters that a specially valuable lot would be sent off on the very morning that was fixed for the revolution. We wanted money badly, and Uncle Philip and several of the others decided that the best plan was to attack the train before it reached the capital. They knew that it would mean some terrible fighting, because the stones are always sent down under a strong military guard, but there was no difficulty in finding dozens of men who were quite ready to risk their lives. One of the first people chosen was Stephen Gardiner. He was appointed second in command, so that if anything happened to Uncle Philip he would be in charge of the party."

She paused, and drew in a deep breath.

"There were twenty-five of them altogether," she went on quietly. "They met just before midnight at the place which had been agreed upon. It was where the train had to cross a bridge over a deep gully. They blew away part of the bridge with dynamite, and hid themselves as well as they could on both sides of the line. When the train came along of course the driver saw what had happened. He pulled up, and directly the engine stopped Uncle Philip gave the signal. He was badly wounded himself almost as soon as he jumped out of the bushes, but about twenty of the others managed to reach the cars. There was a dreadful fight for a minute or two; then the officer in command of the guard was killed by a bullet, and after that the soldiers must have lost their heads. Anyhow, half of them threw down their guns, and the rest gave in to save their own lives."

"They would," I said; "it's a habit with all South-American regulars." I pushed away the tray, and leaned forward with my arms on the table. "What about the diamonds?" I asked.

"Oh, the diamonds were there," she answered, in the same curiously level voice. "They were packed in two sealed boxes, and they were a magnificent lot of stones. One of the men who knew something about jewels put their value at a hundred thousand pounds. As a matter of fact, he was altogether wrong. They were worth double that amount."

I whistled gently. "And de Roda being knocked out," I said, "Mr. Stephen Gardiner was in charge of the proceedings?"

She made a gesture of assent.

"Go on," I added grimly. "Tell me what happened."

"By the time the soldiers had surrendered," she said, "Uncle Philip had lost consciousness. Three of the others were dead and six or seven badly wounded. This man, Gardiner, divided the party into two. He left ten of them behind to look after their friends, and rode off towards Rio with the other five, taking the diamonds with him. No one dreamed that there was anything wrong. Gardiner had fought as bravely as anybody, and they all imagined that when they got to Rio they would find our people in control of the town."

Her voice shook, and for just an instant she seemed to be on the point of breaking down.

"As a matter of fact," she continued, with a kind of desperate calmness, "they were riding straight to their death. At the last moment everything we had planned had been betrayed to Gomez. He had brought troops secretly into all the public buildings, and when our people came out into the streets they were shot down like dogs before they could move a step. Six hundred of them were killed in less than ten minutes. Gomez had given orders that there should be no prisoners, and the soldiers went on firing at the wounded until there wasn't a soul left alive."

"And I suppose my infernal uncle was at the bottom of the whole business?" I broke in.

"You can judge for yourself," she answered. "When he and the other five reached the town they found troops everywhere. In the very first street they came to they were held up by a patrol. Before anyone quite realised what was happening Gardiner rode forward and said something to the officer in command. They let him through at once, and he galloped away up the street, leaving the rest behind him. Some of our men tried to shoot him, but they were too late. Directly he was past the soldiers opened fire and—" She broke off with a little mute gesture that needed no further words.

"My God! What a swine!" I exclaimed. "Do you mean to say he led all his friends to their death, and then handed the stones over to Gomez?"

She laughed again in the same mirthless fashion as before. "You are doing him an injustice," she said. "Anybody can be a traitor to his friends; it takes a genius to betray the other side as well." She paused a moment, her curious dark eyes fixed steadily on mine. "Gomez knew nothing about the attack on the train," she went on. "For once in his life he had met a man who was even more cunning and wicked than himself. Your uncle had sold him all the rest of our plans, but had kept that part an absolute secret. When the patrol let him pass they thought that he was going straight to the President. He had promised Gomez to bring in news of what was happening outside the town, but instead of doing that he galloped his horse down to the harbour, where he had a motor-boat waiting for him. Before they discovered the truth he was six miles out to sea, with the diamonds on board. That was the last that anyone in Brazil ever saw of Mr. Stephen Gardiner."

"Well I'm damned!" I remarked without thinking. Then, feeling that an apology would be rather futile, I leaned across and took her hand, which was resting on the corner of the chair. "And de Roda and the others, Christine," I said. "What happened to them?"

"Three of them were shot the next day," she answered. "They were the lucky ones. Uncle Philip and the rest were flung into prison at Rio. You can probably guess how they were treated. When Gomez died six years later Uncle Philip was the only one left alive. Almost the first thing the new President did was to release him, but it was too late to be of much service. He came out so terribly changed that none of his friends recognised him. He had been starved and tortured until his brain and body had almost given way. He had one idea only—one idea that had been burning into his mind night and day for all those six dreadful years—revenge on the man who had betrayed him."

"I can imagine his feelings," I said with considerable sympathy. "But how the dickens did he find out where my uncle had hidden himself?"

"It wasn't easy," she admitted. "Gomez had offered an enormous reward to anyone who could arrest him and get back the stones, but although the police in Europe had been on the look-out, they had never been able to discover the slightest trace of him. In the end it was just pure chance. A few of our friends had escaped after the revolution, and amongst them was a man called da Silva. He had settled down in London, and one day, when he was out walking, he saw your uncle on the other side of the street. Although it was nearly seven years since they had met he recognised him at once.

"Some people, I suppose, would have given him up to the police, in the hope of getting part of the reward which was still on offer. Da Silva was not that sort of man. He followed your uncle back to where he was living, and then very secretly and carefully he set about making enquiries. When he had found out everything he wanted, he wrote and told Uncle Philip."

"I wonder if the old ruffian guessed that he'd been spotted," I said. "If he did, that would explain why he shut himself up here."

She shook her head. "He was already trying to buy the island. I think he must have seen in the paper that Uncle Philip had been let out of prison."

I suddenly remembered what Bascomb had told me the night we talked together in the hall.

"You're right, Christine," I said. "That's what happened beyond a doubt, and I don't wonder he got the wind up. It must have been rather like reading one's own death-warrant."

"I hope it was," she said mercilessly. "I should like to be sure that he suffered before he died. When I think of the way he escaped us I sometimes feel that there's no justice in the world."

"But surely you knew he was dead before you started from Brazil?" I interrupted. "Your friend da Silva had plenty of time to write to you."

"We never heard from da Silva again," she said. "Three weeks after he sent his first letter he was killed in that big railway accident at Croydon. Until you spoke to me on the boat we both believed that Gardiner was alive."

"Good Lord!" I exclaimed. "No wonder you were a bit flabbergasted."

"It was the thought of Uncle Philip that upset me most. You see, it was impossible for me to tell him then, and I felt certain that he would never get over the shock and disappointment when he found out for himself."

"But how about you?" I asked curiously. "Wasn't it rather a relief to know that you were too late? You can't take the law into your own hands in this country without paying for it pretty heavily."

"Do you suppose that mattered?" she demanded. "Do you think I cared what happened to me as long as Gardiner was punished? Why, rather than see him escape I would have killed him myself!"

"I believe you would," I said, with genuine admiration. Then, lighting another cigarette, I added: "How long was it before de Roda discovered the truth?"

"It was two days after we landed. Directly we came ashore he left me at an hotel and went straight to da Silva's address. He had been very puzzled at not hearing again and getting no answer to his letters, but of course when he found out what had happened it explained everything. Da Silva had told us about Greensea Island in his first letter, however, so the next morning Uncle Phillip motored down here to make enquiries. The first thing he learned was that Gardiner was dead."

"How did he take it?" I enquired

"He seemed almost stunned when he came back. He sat all the evening without saying a word, and, although I did my best to comfort him, I don't think he even heard what I said. It was not until the next morning that he told me he had taken a lease of 'The Laurels.' I didn't bother him with any questions, but from the way he spoke I felt sure he believed that the diamonds, or what was left of them, were still hidden on the island. By this time he had got a kind of half-insane conviction that they were his own property."

"I am inclined to agree with him," I said. "Anyhow, I'd a jolly sight rather he had them than the Brazilian Government." I paused. "Had he tumbled across the fact of my existence?" I asked.

"Not then," she replied. "Nobody down here had any idea of what would happen to the property. I was the only one who knew, and that was why I asked you to meet me that day in Bond Street. I was afraid that directly Uncle Philip learned the truth he would suspect you of having the stones. You were Gardiner's nephew too, and in the queer state he was in that alone was quite enough to put your life in danger."

"You've acted like a brick all through, Christine," I said gratefully.

"I only did what anyone else would have done," she went on hurriedly. "I felt you ought to be warned, but at the time I little guessed the real state of affairs." She stopped, with a queer expression in her brown eyes. "You see, it was not until two days later that I first met Dr. Manning."

"Ah!" I said softly. "Now we're getting to the part in which I take a rather particular interest."

"I heard about him from the people at the inn," she continued. "I wanted to find out the address of some medical man in case Uncle Philip was ill, so I called in at the Gunner's Arms the morning after we arrived and asked the landlord's advice. He told me that there was no practising doctor nearer than Torrington, but that if I wanted anyone in a hurry he had no doubt that Dr. Manning would come at once. That very night my uncle had one of his worst heart attacks. The only other person in the house was an old Frenchwoman we had brought with us from London. I sent her to the barge with a note, and Dr. Manning got up, dressed, and came along immediately." She laughed again, even more bitterly than before. "I remember thinking at the time how extraordinarily kind it was of him."

"Yes," I said. "He's very obliging in cases of that sort."

"When I look back now," she went on, "it seems a sort of crowning irony that I should have asked him to the house myself. Not that it really made the least difference."

"He knew, of course?" I interrupted. "I suppose he had found out while he was on the island?"

She nodded. "Your uncle had been delirious for two days, and he had evidently betrayed himself a dozen times over. I think what he said must have been all very broken and confused, but it had been enough for Dr. Manning. He had guessed that the stones were hidden there, and he had made up his mind to get hold of them."

"Had he any idea that Señor de Roda was in the same line of business?" I asked.

"He suspected it certainly," she replied. "Your uncle must have mentioned the name, and no doubt he had put two and two together. He was only waiting his time. If I hadn't sent for him that night he would probably have come to see us next day."

"But what was his object?" I demanded. "From what I've seen of him I should have thought his one idea would have been to get in first and cut you out."

"So it was," she said. "Thanks chiefly to you, however, he was up against a blank wall. He had had no chance of searching the place properly while he was there, because Bascomb was always watching him, and when you refused to sell the island that finished everything."

"It certainly came very near to finishing me," I observed grimly. "I suppose there's no doubt that it was either he or Craill who shoved me into the dock."

"It was Craill," she observed. "He is only half-witted, but he's horribly cunning and dangerous, and absolutely under Manning's influence."

"A jolly sort of pair to have as next-door neighbours," I remarked. "And what was the doctor's actual proposition? He must have been counting on some pretty effectual help from you if he was ready to go shares."

"I think he had an idea that we knew where the stones were," she replied. "When he discovered he was wrong it was too late for him to draw back. Besides, he had no wish to then. He saw that he could do just as he pleased with Uncle Philip, and—and—" She hesitated as if half unwilling to go on.

"You needn't explain, Christine," I said. "I've seen something of what you've had to put up with."

"Oh, it was horrible," she whispered, "but what could I do? My uncle seemed to have no will of his own left. He believed everything that Manning told him, and in a few days he hated you quite as bitterly as he had ever hated Gardiner. I felt sure they intended to kill you, and the only way in which I could be of any help was by trying to keep on friendly terms with both of them. Even as it was, Manning never trusted me altogether."

"What are their present plans, as far as you know?" I asked.

"Unless I am wrong," she said slowly, "they mean to attack the house at once, while you and Bascomb are alone here. I believe that on the night Manning stayed with you he found out, or thinks he found out, exactly where the diamonds are hidden. He came to see us the next day, and I could tell from his manner that he was extraordinarily pleased and excited about something. After a long talk Uncle Philip went away to Harwich the same evening. He told me he would probably send me a wire, and that if he did I was to take it over to Dr. Manning at once. It arrived about twelve o'clock this morning."

"What on earth took your uncle to Harwich?" I enquired curiously.

"I don't know for certain. I think, from one or two things I overheard, that he wanted to buy a boat. The telegram was probably to say that he had got it."

"That looks like business, anyhow," I remarked. "I suppose that if they find the stones they mean to make a straight line for the Continent." I paused. "When do you think I can expect the honour of a visit?" I asked. "To-night?"

"It will be very soon, anyhow," she answered. "I believe they are only waiting until my uncle comes back. Unless everything had been arranged, Manning would never have behaved as he did this afternoon.

"He wouldn't have poisoned Satan either," I added. "It would have been a mad thing to do if he wasn't prepared to follow it up at once." I rose from my chair and took two or three paces up and down the room. Then I halted just in front of her. "Christine," I said desperately, "there's only one way out of this infernal mess. Stay with me, and let them do just what they like. I am expecting Bobby Dean here to-morrow, and he and Bascomb can take charge of the place while we go up to London and get married. After that I don't care a damn what happens. De Roda can have all the diamonds in the world as far as I'm concerned."

Her lips moved, but before she could speak I went down on my knees and put my arms round her.

"I love you, darling," I whispered. "I have loved you with all my heart and soul ever since you came on board the Neptune. There isn't——"

"Ah, no, no," she interrupted. "Don't—please! You make it so much harder." Then with a little heart-broken sob she suddenly pressed her face against mine, and I felt both our cheeks wet with her tears.

"Why not, Christine?" I pleaded. "You have done everything you can."

"It's my uncle," she said pitifully. "He has no one in the world except me."

"But you can't go back after what has happened to-day?" I exclaimed. "Even if Manning believes that my coming to the barge was pure chance, he knows that I took you away in my boat, and he's simply bound to suspect you. He is sure to tell your uncle, and with a madman like de Roda——"

"I am not afraid," she broke in. "However mad Uncle Philip is, he would never hurt me. Oh, my dear, I would stay if I could, I would stay with you so gladly, but when I think of all he has suffered, how can I leave him now just when he needs me most?"

"You think of everyone except yourself," I cried hotly. "I wish to God I'd killed Manning on the barge. To feel that you may be alone in the house with that devil——"

She placed her hand softly on my shoulder. "I shall be quite safe," she said. "Most likely Uncle Philip will come back this evening, and in any case there is always Marie. She is kind to me in her way. If I couldn't leave the house I am sure she would take a note for me to Jimmy, so you see there's really no need for you to be anxious or worried on my account. It's you who are in such dreadful danger."

"What, with Bascomb here and Bobby Dean turning up in the morning?" I exclaimed. "Why, if I can't take care of my own skin with the help of a prize-fighter and a V.C.—" I stopped short, as a sudden difficulty occurred to me. "How about Bobby?" I added. "So far I haven't even mentioned your name to him. He is under the impression that the whole affair is a little private speculation of Dr. Manning's."

"You will have to tell him the truth," she said "It's too late to keep anything back." She glanced up at the clock above the fireplace; then, bending forward, she took my face between her hands, and looked long and tenderly into my eyes. "I must go, dear," she whispered; "you must take me back to Pen Mill and put me ashore. I daren't stay any longer, in case my uncle comes back unexpectedly."

Every instinct I possessed rose up in revolt, but, all the same, I saw that any further protest would be useless. For a moment I knelt there, holding her in my arms, and studying every curve of her beautiful face. Then, hungry with love, I crushed her still closer to my heart, and once again our lips met in a long, passionate kiss.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

It was in a far from enviable state of mind that I pulled back alone across the estuary after parting with Christine at Pen Mill.

By her own wish I had landed her at the extreme point of the jetty, where, with a whispered farewell, she had climbed ashore and disappeared silently into the mist, leaving me the prey of all sorts of conflicting emotions.

My chief feeling was one of anger with myself for not having prevented her from carrying out her reckless determination. How I could have done so it was difficult to see, but if there was any comfort to be drawn from that fact I certainly failed to discover it. Once more she was beyond the reach of my help, and, in spite of all her efforts to make light of the danger, I knew that the horrible misgivings which assailed my heart were only too well grounded.

Locking up the dinghy in its shed, I made my way back through the shrubbery and let myself into the house. A good fire was still burning away brightly on the hearth, and our teacups and plates were scattered about the table just as we had left them. I thought of ringing for Bascomb and telling him to clear away, but a sudden disinclination to see anyone checked my purpose. I walked across to the fireplace, and, thrusting an empty pipe between my teeth, dropped down again into my customary chair.

There I sat, thinking over Christine's story. She had told it so simply and naturally that even at the time I had felt a curious absence of surprise. Strange as the truth was, it had, too, only confirmed my own belief that somewhere far back in Mr. Richard Jannaway's chequered past lay the real source of all my present troubles. And yet, judged by any conceivable standard of the quiet English countryside about us, what an amazing tale it was! That bloody massacre in the sunlit streets of Rio, the long untiring search for vengeance, the death of my uncle at the very moment when an implacable fate was closing in about him—it all seemed more like the plot of some fantastic drama than a real sequence of actual events in which I was intimately and urgently concerned.

For de Roda himself I felt nothing but the most profound pity. I knew something of South American prisons, and I could well imagine the horrors of that six years' purgatory. To have come through it alive, and then at the last hour to have been cheated out of his revenge, was, in my eyes at least, quite sufficient to excuse the slight trace of homicidal mania with which he appeared to be afflicted.

It was no doubt chiefly due to the diabolical prompting of Manning that he had begun to confuse me with the original object of his hatred. The more I learned about things the more I became convinced that under the easy manner and smiling face of my next-door neighbour there lurked one of the cleverest and most ruthless criminal brains that was ever destined for a medical museum. His popularity in the district, and the entire absence of suspicion with which everyone seemed to regard him, only served to strengthen my belief. I wondered much what his past history had really been, and whether Inspector Campbell's researches would have any practical result. There had been an air of quiet assurance about that stolid Scotsman which had inspired me with considerable hope, and as the memory of his determined chin and his shrewd grey eyes rose up in my mind, I suddenly realised that the time had come when I should be well advised to take him fully into my confidence. After all, de Roda had committed no crime against the laws of England. If we could get him out of Manning's clutches he might yet be made to realise that instead of seeking to rob him I was only too anxious to lend him a helping hand. Of course he could not be allowed to walk off with the diamonds, much as I sympathised with his view on the subject. Still, if what Christine had told me were correct, the present Brazilian Government would doubtless be prepared to fork out a handsome reward for their recovery, and that would at least provide some compensation for all the shabby tricks that fate had played him.

For my part, I wanted nothing in the world except Christine. Some men are so constituted that they are able to fall in love half a dozen times, while with others every emotional capacity seems to store itself up for one supreme experience. It had been so in my own case. Until then the remarkable state of ecstasy, in which at various times I had seen several of my friends engulfed, had always struck me as being a little difficult to account for. I was no longer troubled by this apparent problem. My heart thrilled with a strange, inexpressible happiness, which not even my anxiety for Christine's safety was able to destroy. Everything which had been missing in life seemed suddenly to have come to me, and, almost forgetting the danger in which we still stood, I allowed my fancies to drift out into that golden future where lovers have wandered from the very dawn of time.

How long I lay there day-dreaming I really cannot say. I know that I was brought back to earth by the fall of a burned-out log, and, looking up at the clock, I saw to my surprise that the time was close on a quarter to seven. It struck me as curious that Bascomb had not yet been in to clear away the tea things, for such an oversight was altogether contrary to his usual methodical habits. Wondering what he was doing, I roused myself out of my chair and crossed the hall to the baize door. I called his name twice, and then, as he failed to answer, I walked along the passage as far as the kitchen. There was no sign of him there, nor did my investigations in the scullery and pantry produce any better result.

With a vague feeling of uneasiness I made my way to the back entrance, which I found unlocked, and stepped out into the garden.

"Bascomb!" I shouted. "Bascomb!"

Once more a complete silence was my only reply.

Puzzled, and not a little upset, I stood peering out into the fog, which still shrouded everything in impenetrable gloom. Unless he had gone down to the boat-house I could not imagine where on earth he had got to, for if he were anywhere close at hand he must certainly have heard me calling. It was so unlike him, however, to disappear in this fashion, just when he ought to have been preparing dinner, that all my former doubts as to whether he was quite in his right senses came back to me with renewed vigour.

Having pondered over the situation for a few moments, I decided that the best thing to do was to go out at once and have a look for him. It was not a particularly inviting prospect, but, on the other hand, the evening was closing in rapidly, and it would soon be too dark to see one's way about. So, stepping back into the house, I picked up a cap from the hall table, and then, after carefully closing and locking the back door, I once more climbed over the railings, and started off to grope my way along the shrubbery path.

By the time I reached the small iron gate which lead out on to the foreshore I was beginning to feel uncommonly anxious. I passed through this, letting it clang noisily behind me, and before I had taken another half dozen paces the low roof of the boathouse suddenly loomed into view.

The first thing that caught my attention was the door. Instead of being shut, as I had left it, it was now wide open, and, naturally concluding that Bascomb must be inside, I walked towards it with a considerable feeling of relief.

A moment later I was standing on the threshold staring blankly in front of me. The place was as empty as a barn. Not only was there no trace of Bascomb, but in addition to that the dinghy itself was also missing.

I don't know why it had not occurred to me till then that he might have gone ashore, but somehow or other the discovery took me utterly by surprise. During the whole time that I had been on the island he had never yet left me alone without first coming to ask my permission, and I suppose I had begun to regard this as a kind of inevitable rite. At least I can think of no other way to account for the sensation of aggrieved astonishment with which I remained there gazing round the deserted shed.

Being eventually struck by the futility of my proceedings, I came out on to the landing-stage, and stepped forward to the very edge of the water. In all directions a solid blanket of grey mist stretched before my eyes, while, except for the sound of my own footsteps, everything was as silent as the grave.

That Bascomb should have deserted me in this extraordinary fashion was a thing which even now I found it hard to believe. There was only one conclusion to be drawn from the evidence, however, and that was that as soon as he had heard me return he had slipped away quietly with the extra key of the boat-house and had gone off alone in the dinghy. Why he should have chosen my dinner-time for his excursion was a mystery, but, queer as he might be, I felt convinced that he must have had some very definite purpose at the back of his mind.

I tried to put myself in his place, and all of a sudden a startling but far from impossible idea suggested itself. Supposing he had gone to the barge! Supposing that, in his mad fury at the death of Satan, he had set off single-handed to try to wreak his vengeance upon Manning and Craill!

Straining my eyes, I stared vainly through the mist in the direction he would have taken. If I were right there was no saying what cheerful work might even now be in full swing, for I knew enough of all the three principal actors to be quite certain that none of them would stick at trifles, and yet, without a boat, I was powerless to interfere. Until Bascomb returned or somebody else came over from Pen Mill I was as much a prisoner as Napoleon on St. Helena.

At the very moment when this unpleasant truth was forcing itself into my mind the almost uncanny stillness was broken by a low whistle. I turned round sharply, and then six times in quick succession the same sound repeated itself from somewhere close about me. It was the call of a whimbrel—that queer, mournful note which, according to every fisherman along the east coast, is the sure herald of death or disaster.

For a sailor I don't think I am particularly superstitious. All the same, there was something so weird and ominous in that unexpected cry that just for an instant I felt as if a cold hand had suddenly been placed against my heart. Then, by a big effort, I managed to pull myself together. With a kind of impatient anger at my own idiocy I stepped down off the landing-stage, and, walking back to the boat-house, had another look at the interior.

There was nothing further to be learned there. Bascomb and the dinghy had both vanished beyond a doubt, and the only thing I could do was to await their return with such philosophy as I had at my command. After all, it was just possible that he had crossed over to Pen Mill. In view of his somewhat distracting day, he might have overlooked the fact that we were short of food, and have hurried off to remedy the deficiency at the last possible moment. I can't say I had very much faith in this conjecture, but it did at least provide me with a gleam of hope. Anyhow, having once more closed the door, I abandoned the shed to its own desolation, and set off in a shade better spirits on my return journey to the house.

The first thing I did on getting back into the hall was to go to the sideboard and mix myself a drink. I have always found that I can bear suspense better with the aid of a good stiff whisky and soda—a peculiarity which I share with Bobby Dean and most of my naval acquaintances. Carrying the tumbler to the hearth, I placed it within convenient reach upon a neighbouring table, and then, having thrown another log upon the fire, I sat down deliberately to wait upon events.

For the best part of an hour I maintained my solitary vigil, the only interruption being the chiming of the clock, which hammered out every quarter with what sounded to me like a kind of malicious amusement. I bore it doggedly until close on half-past eight, by which time I had begun to feel so devilish empty that my stock of patience was rapidly exhausting itself. It was long past my usual dinner hour, and the experiences I had been through that afternoon were scarcely the sort to blunt the edge of a naturally healthy appetite.

A tour of inspection to the larder resulted in the discovery of half a cold chicken which had apparently been left over from my last meal. In addition to this I also succeeded in routing out a stale loaf and a promising-looking Cheddar cheese. Though not quite up to my usual standard, it was a good enough banquet for a really hungry man, so without bothering about a table-cloth or any other superfluous details, I carried the whole lot back to the hall, and settled down to repair my wasted energies.

By the time I had finished nine o'clock had already struck. Except for the flickering gleam of the fire I should long ago have been in complete darkness, and, feeling that a little extra illumination would not be amiss, I got up to light the lamp. Before doing so, however, I took the precaution of closing the shutters. In the absence of Satan anyone could steal up to the verandah without being detected, and it would be a sideways sort of ending to be shot through the window just when my affairs seemed to be approaching a really interesting climax.

Having guarded against the possibility of this disaster, I proceeded to make myself comfortable for the evening. Tired as I was, I had no intention of going to bed as long as there was any reasonable chance of Bascomb's return. Even if I did so, I should certainly be unable to sleep, and I should probably have the additional joy of being hauled out in the middle of the night in order to unbolt the door and let him into the house.

So, providing myself with one of Uncle Richard's biggest cigars, I refilled my glass again, and wheeled the sofa round in front of the fire. Then, taking Manning's revolver out of my pocket, I laid it carefully on the table beside my tumbler. Although its original owner might still be too indisposed to threaten any immediate danger, there were always Craill and de Roda to be considered. Either of them might take it into his head to pay me a surprise call, and, mentally afflicted as I believed them both to be, they were the sort of visitors for whom it was just as well to be fully prepared.

The warmth and stillness of the room soon began to affect me with such a pleasant sense of drowsiness that I found some difficulty in keeping myself awake. In order to assist in the process, I started going over again in my own mind the whole tangled skein of events which had led up to the present crisis. It was an interesting exercise, and, apart from that, it served a double purpose. I was determined to make a clean breast of everything to Bobby the next morning, and, if his advice was to be of any value, it was highly essential that the version I gave him should be an absolutely correct and unprejudiced one.