VII.

While Ray did not again see Starbuck until the Raven had dropped anchor in the harbor of Cobh, he was aware of the presence in his vicinity of Koli. The little Jap was unobtrusive, but Ray was certain that the man had been given instructions to watch over the luckless visitor, and he was equally sure that any false move on his part would be productive of instant counter measures on the part of Koli.

The latter need not have been apprehensive. Ray had no notion of plunging over the side into the icy waters of the bay; his recent experience had supplied enough of that to last him for a long time.

And there was no chance to get ashore any other way. A small tender was lowered overside. Into this the steward, Sayles, descended, followed by the man called Grundy.

Starbuck appeared at the rail with low-toned instructions for Sayles and the boat put off.

Something like an hour and a half later the launch returned. On gaining the deck Sayles thrust into Starbuck’s hands a great bundle of papers, said a few words and went below. Starbuck approached Ray, remarking affably: “You might want to see the news, Mr. Folsom.” And Ray went along with him to the lounge where Count Markowski was talking with Mrs. Trine.

The two eagerly accepted the papers which Starbuck handed them, watched narrowly, Ray thought, as he and his host passed on into the library where Ray had discovered the floor plan of the Gaylord home.

Starbuck closed the door after he had flooded the room with light and threw the bundle of papers on the table.

“Help yourself,” he told Ray; he himself shook out a copy of the Freeman’s Journal. Ray dug out a Daily Mail and an Evening News.

Instantly the principal headline caught his eye:

FEAR FOR SAFETY OF OCEAN FLYERS

There followed the meager news dispatches, reporting the signals exchanged at Harbor Grace, the speaking of the plane by the Majestic. It was pointed out that, unless disaster had overtaken the adventurers, they should have appeared over the British Isles early in the present day.

Ray smiled grimly and turned to the other columns.

There it was, the most important story in the sheet, outside the flying yarn, which really wasn’t a story at all.

The dispatch from New York ran:

NO TRACE OF MISSING HEIRESS SEVENTH DAY BRINGS NO CLEW OF WHEREABOUTS Wild Rumors Afloat

Local, State and Federal police confess themselves completely baffled in the nation-wide search for the missing daughter of Wilbur Gaylord, international banker of Philadelphia.

Without giving any specific reason, the authorities state that it is practically certain that Eve Gaylord is the victim of kidnapers. The operations, it is understood, are being supervised by an official high in the United States Secret Service, and this individual is in constant touch with Wilbur Gaylord.

The latter refused to confirm a rumor to the effect that a huge ransom had been demanded for the return of Miss Gaylord, but Mr. Gaylord’s manner, during the interview, indicated that something had occurred which has not been made public. Doubtless the furor which the girl’s disappearance has caused has rendered the kidnapers extremely cautious.

Mr. Gaylord utterly scouts the theory that there is a love affair at the bottom of the matter, or that Miss Gaylord, for any reason, is remaining away from home voluntarily.

Ray read every word with tense absorption and looked up to find Starbuck quietly watching him. The two men stared at each other for fully a minute before Starbuck broke the silence.

“You see why I couldn’t put you ashore,” he said, with rising inflection.

“What I would like to know,” Ray told him, “is, just who are you, Mr. Starbuck?”

“I refer you,” said the other, “to the great American press. Every last newspaper in your grand and glorious country has, if it is alive, a fat file on the activities of Miles Starbuck. Isn’t that enough for you?”

Ray lighted a cigarette.

“I’m damned if it is, after what I’ve seen,” he said bluntly.

“It will have to be, for the present,” was the reply.

“Well, what do you intend to do with me?”

“To tell the truth, I can feel my hair turning gray, trying to work that out,” Starbuck told him. “You are more of a problem than ever. I never should have taken you out of the water. But I thought I could slip you ashore here without any fuss. Believe me, if I had known what was coming off, you would be out there in the ocean yet.”

“You’re a pleasant person, I must say,” Ray told him. “But you have to do something, you know. You can’t keep me here on this boat indefinitely.”

“Why couldn’t I?” demanded Starbuck crisply. “In a day or two it will be an accepted fact that you have been lost at sea. Nobody will bother about you any more. Why couldn’t I keep you here?”

“Perhaps you could,” admitted Ray. “But I don’t think you mean to.”

“You’re right there,” Starbuck said. “I am really debating whether to put you back where I found you or take you north with me. I am going home to my island, and while you would be quite safe and snug there—as much so as on this boat—I hate to be bothered. You couldn’t escape—it’s twelve miles to the nearest land—but you might think you could, and annoy me by trying to do so.”

“I see your viewpoint. You have your hands full with Miss Gaylord, what?”

“Quite. But I hope she will not be with us too long. Of the two, I regard you as the more dangerous. Still, I have nothing against you, and I dislike employing summary measures if I can avoid it. My guests, or perhaps associates, on board, feel the same as I do about it. On the whole, I think we shall have to take you north with us and chance it.”

“Suppose I gave my word to say nothing, if you let me go ashore,” Ray said, tentatively.

“You probably would keep it,” Starbuck returned. “But I could not afford the risk, slight though it might be. No.”

“Very well, then. I may as well be philosophical about it, I suppose. Can you tell me any more about this island of yours? I remember there was something about it in the papers, but I did not pay much attention.”

“What the papers said was that I owned a magnificent island estate in the Irish Sea, off the coast of the Isle of Skye. That is partly true. Only I do not own it; I lease it—and the yacht too—from the estate of Lord Derricote. Would you believe it, I have sunk in this venture of mine some eighteen thousand pounds—ninety thousand American dollars?”

“On which you expect a handsome return, I dare say.”

“Quite handsome. It should be, with the attendant risk. But that will be all, now. You’re an engaging cuss, Folsom. In a minute I shall be offering to sell you a piece of my show. We are going to pull out for Liverpool at once. Koli will see that you find your room, this time. Night.”

“Good night,” Ray said absently.