The Message. Louis Tracy
is the nicest thing you could have said,” he agreed, and she in turn felt her heart racing.
“Of course you are very well aware that I did not imagine you might not be differently occupied,” she protested.
“Let us not quarrel about meanings. You were delightfully right. It is the simple fact that before you were many minutes in the Sans Souci’s cabin—by the way, where were you?”
“In Mrs. Baumgartner’s state–room.”
“Ah. Well—to continue—I was nearly coming to take you away, vi et armis.”
“But why?”
“You have no idea whom Mr. Baumgartner was entertaining?”
“None.”
“The first person to reach the Sans Souci after yourself was the Portuguese land–pirate I mentioned to you yesterday. He was accompanied by three chiefs of the men of Oku. Do you recollect my description of the mask on the gourd?”
She uttered a startled little cry.
“Are you in earnest?” was all she could find to say.
“I was in deadly earnest about eight o’clock last evening, I assure you. Had it not been for a most amazing intervention you would certainly have heard me demanding your instant appearance on deck.”
“Then what happened?”
“I must begin by admitting that I was worried about you. I got into the dinghy, intending to see you on some pretext. A launch containing this precious gang crossed my bows, and I returned to the Nancy to—to secure Peter’s assistance. We were near the Sans Souci on the second trip when another launch arrived, and there stepped on board the yacht a gentleman whose presence assured me that you, at least, were safe enough. You will credit that element in a strained situation when I tell you that the latest arrival was the emperor.”
“The Emperor!” she almost gasped. “Do you mean——”
“Sh–s–s–h! No names. If walls have ears, we are surrounded by listeners. But I am not mistaken. I saw him clearly. I heard Baumgartner’s humble greeting. And the really remarkable fact is that Peter and you and I share a very important state secret.”
“I—I don’t understand,” she said, bewildered.
“Of course you don’t. Not many people could guess why the most powerful monarch on the Continent of Europe should wish to confer with four of the ripest scoundrels that the West African hinterland can produce. Nevertheless, it is true.”
“Then that is why Mrs. Baumgartner kept me closeted in her state–room nearly two hours?”
“Yes. By the way, has she engaged you?”
“Yes. She was exceedingly kind. The terms and conditions are most generous. I rejoin the yacht and meet her daughter at Milford next Wednesday. Then we go to Scotland for some shooting, and the Sans Souci returns to Portsmouth to be refitted for a cruise to Madeira and the Canaries during the winter months. Altogether, she sketched a very agreeable programme. But you have excited my curiosity almost beyond bounds by your description of the goings–on last night. My share of the important state secret you spoke of is very slight. It consists in being wholly ignorant of it. Can you enlighten me?”
“There is no reason why I should not. It will invest the Baumgartners with a romantic nimbus which, judging solely from observations, might otherwise be lacking.”
The girl laughed.
“They are pleasant people, but rather commonplace,” she said.
“Well, we can talk freely in the train.”
“You are not leaving Cowes this morning on my account?”
Perhaps her voice showed a degree of restraint. Though she was beginning to like Captain Arthur Warden more than she cared to admit even to herself, he must not be allowed to believe that their friendship could go to extremes.
“If you don’t mind enduring my company as far as Portsmouth, I propose to inflict it on you,” he explained good–humoredly. “Circumstances compel me to visit London to–day. Chris is now waiting at the station with my bag. I would have left the island by the first train had I not been lucky enough to see you earlier and interpret your signal correctly.”
“I only intended to tell you——”
“The time you would come ashore. Exactly. Why are you vexed because we are fellow–travelers till midday?”
“I am not vexed. I am delighted.”
“You expressed your delight with the warmth of an iceberg.”
“Now you are angry with me.”
“Furious. But please give me your well–balanced opinion. If peaches are good in the afternoon should they not be better in the morning?”
“I could eat a peach,” she admitted.
Figuero, who did not fail to pick up the newspaper thrown aside by Warden, followed them without any difficulty. When they stopped at a shop in the main street he took the opportunity to buy a copy of the torn newspaper. Mingling with a crowd at the station, he saw them enter a first–class carriage. His acquaintance with the English language was practically confined to the trader’s tongue spoken all along the West African coast, and he had little knowledge of English ways. But he was shrewd and tactful, and his keen wits were at their utmost tension. Hence, he was not at a loss how to act when he found that a ticket examiner was visiting each compartment. Seizing a chance that presented itself, he asked the man if he could inform him where the pretty girl in blue and the tall gentleman in the yachtsman’s clothes were going, and a tip of five shillings unlocked the official lips.
“The lady has a return ticket to Langton, in Oxfordshire, and the gentleman a single to London,” said the man.
Figuero did not trust his memory. He asked the name of the first–named town again, and how to spell it. Then he wrote something in a note–book and hurried back to the harbor. It was essential that he should find out what vessels these two people came from, for the presence of a Southern Nigeria Deputy Commissioner in Cowes was not a coincidence to be treated lightly.
Seated in a tiny boat in the harbor was a rotund, jolly–looking personage of seafaring aspect. He and the boat were there when the larger craft which brought the girl ashore came to the quay, but Figuero had taken no notice of Evelyn then, because he had not the least notion that Warden was awaiting her. Possibly the sailor–like individual in the small boat could slake his thirst for knowledge.
So he hailed him.
“You lib for know Capt’n Varden?” he asked, with an ingratiating smile and a hand suggestively feeling for a florin.
“I wot?” said the stout man, poking out a wooden leg as he swung round to face his questioner.
“You savvy—you know Capt’n Varden, a mister who walk here one–time—just now—for long minutes.”
“There’s no one of that name in these parts,” replied Peter, who thought he identified this swarthy–faced inquirer.
“Den p’raps you tell name of young lady—very beautiful young lady—who lib for here in ship–boat not much time past? She wear blue dress an’ brown hat an’ brown boots.”
“Oh, everybody knows her,” grinned Peter. “She’s Miss Polly Perkins, of Paddington Green.”
“You write ’im name, an’ I dash you two shillin’,” said Figuero eagerly.
Peter was about to reply that if any dashing was to be done he could take a hand in the game himself, but he thought better of it. Taking the proffered