VIII.

As the Raven got under way once more, her wireless was sputtering furiously. Probably, Ray thought, the materials required for repairs had been obtained ashore. Certainly the sparks were flying merrily as the yacht slipped away toward the Bristol Channel.

Ray lingered, loath to turn in. He would not sleep, he knew—not while his brain was awhirl with the astounding events of the past twenty-four hours.

It did not seem possible that, some thirty-six hours before, he and Marjorie Benham had exchanged greetings with Harbor Grace. It was more like a week, a month, even.

And now—well, he stood face to face with the strangest predicament that ever fell to the lot of man. He only wondered why Starbuck did not make an end of him at once. It would be so simple.

If his body turned up afterward, no question of murder would be raised. And, of a sudden, he knew why he did not go to bed. He was too nervous; he must keep awake and on his guard.

Once clear of the vessel, it would be different. But the temptation to rid himself of his undesirable guest might prove too great for Starbuck.

Of course the fact that Eve Gaylord had seen him might have a bearing on the case. It might complicate matters for Starbuck later on if he should be apprehended. Ray wondered what the man’s scheme was, anyhow. How he hoped to collect a ransom.

But, more than all, he marveled at the gullibility of the astute American newspapers. How they had fallen for Starbuck and his yacht! Ray acknowledged to himself that he had been quite as easy as the rest.

He had never heard of Miles Starbuck until the press burst into song, as it were. Photographs of the Raven, of Mr. Starbuck, “South African Millionaire.” Stories of the round-the-world cruise just ending. Lavish hospitality to reporters aboard the yacht—followed by columns of good stuff.

Bah! All one had to do was get a boat, hire a castle and spend a lot of money and, if he had a reasonably clever press agent, he could build up an astonishing reputation overnight, almost.

This, apparently, was what Starbuck had done—deliberately, that he might carry out his plan for kidnaping Eve Gaylord.

A sweet bunch of crooks, that was all. But, for the undoing of Ray Folsom, that was quite enough.

He thought vaguely of escape, had wild ideas of watching for another craft passing fairly close and hurling himself overboard. But the vision of Eve Gaylord’s alert face, as he had seen it for a split second, through the door, somehow filled him with the desire to see the thing through, to risk everything on the off chance of being able to compass her freedom.

He told himself that it was silly, but—well, one adventure had merged into another. Why not ride with the wind?

Just outside the Mersey Bar, Starbuck came to Ray with a startling radio message. It had been sent by the American tanker Sunspot to the Associated Press, New York:

Mrs. Jarvis Benham rescued at sea off Irish coast after plane Silver Bird, in which she and Ray Folsom were attempting flight to Warsaw, was wrecked in heavy sea. Motor trouble caused descent. Folsom probably lost, as no trace of him found after exhaustive research. Mrs. Benham suffering from exposure, but not in serious condition.

“Thank God!” breathed Ray when he had scanned the message. “I don’t care much what happens now.”

Starbuck smiled faintly. “I thought you would be pleased,” he said, and went off to pass the news around.

Certainly a great load was lifted from Ray’s mind. He felt capable of facing anything now.

But he had an overwhelming curiosity to see Eve Gaylord again, to talk with her. He wondered if he would have that opportunity when Starbuck’s island should be reached.

How was the girl reacting to the situation? he wondered. Was she depressed or angry or calmly resigned?

Ray—basing his assumption on that one glimpse of her face—guessed that she would not be too docile. Miss Dollis, he gathered, spent most of her time with the girl.

Ray could not see why more freedom was not accorded the victim. She could not escape, and it seemed cruel to hold the girl in her cabin constantly. The reason, however, he learned later.

The Raven anchored well out in the river, and Starbuck prepared to go ashore. With him went Count Markowski and Mrs. Trine.

Ray idled on the deck, half tempted to leap overboard and swim for it. He might possibly be able to raise an alarm before the Raven could get away.

But the distance was more than a mile to the nearest landing stage, and should he fail to make it, Eve Gaylord would be worse off than ever. As it was, he might find himself in a position to help her.

As if in answer to the thought, the quiet voice of Koli said, almost in Ray’s ear, “No jump, Missa Folsom. Missa Starbuck, he say no let Missa Folsom go swimmin’. Water too cold, much.”

In the hand of the Jap, Ray discerned the blued snout of an automatic and did not waste time figuring how far he would get, even if the risk seemed worth taking. So he grinned at the Jap.

“Yes, much too cold,” he agreed.

Presently Starbuck returned in the launch. Count Markowski and the Trine woman did not accompany him, and shortly afterward the Raven turned her nose to the north.