CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
BRONSON had killed him, that was the comforting defence. Bronson, who was now guiding him to safety, and who would, if necessary, give his life for him. Bronson should bear the onus of that act.
They were well up now, and the engines were a smooth “b-r-r” of sound. A night wind was blowing and the plane rocked from side to side. It made the girl feel a little sick, but she commanded her brain to grow accustomed to the motion, and after a while the feeling of nausea wore off.
They could see the sea now. The flashing signals of the lighthouses came from left and right. Bristol, a tangle of fiery spots, lay to their left, and there were tiny gleams of light on the river and estuary.
They skirted the northern shore of the Bristol Channel and headed west, following the coastline. Presently the machine turned due south, leaving behind them the land and its girdle of lights. Twenty minutes later Bronson fired his signal pistol. A ball of brilliant green fire curved up and down and almost immediately, from the sea, came an answering signal. Digby strapped the girl’s life-belt tighter, and saw to the fastening of his own.
“Fix my belt.” It was Bronson shouting through the telephone, and Digby, leaning forward, fastened the life-belt about the pilot’s waist. He fastened it carefully and added a, stout strap, tying the loose end of the leather in a knot. Down went the machine in a long glide toward the light which still burnt, and now the girl could see the outlines of the graceful yacht and the green and red lights it showed. They made a circle, coming lower and lower every second, until they were spinning about the yacht not more than a dozen feet from the sea. Bronson shut off his engines and brought the machine upon the water, less than fifty feet from the waiting boat.
Instantly the aeroplane sank under them, leaving them in the sea. It was a strange sensation, thought the girl, for the water was unusually warm.
She heard a shriek and turned, and then Digby caught her hand.
“Keep close to me,” he said in a whimpering voice, “you might be lost in the darkness.”
She knew that he was thinking of himself. A light flared from the oncoming boat, and she looked round. In spite of herself, she asked:
“Where is the man?”
Bronson was nowhere in sight. Digby did not trouble to turn his head or answer. He reached up and gripped the gunwale of the boat and in a minute Eunice was lifted out of the water. She found herself in a small cutter which was manned by brown-faced men, who she thought at first were Japanese.
“Where is Bronson?” she asked again in a panic, but Digby did not reply. He sat immovable, avoiding her eyes, and she could have shrieked her horror. Bronson had gone down with the aeroplane! The strap which Digby had fastened about his waist, he had cunningly attached to the seat itself, and had fastened it so that it was impossible for the pilot to escape.
He was the first up the gangway on to the white deck of the yacht, and turning, he offered his hand to her.
“Welcome to the Pealigo,” he said in his mocking voice.
Then it was not fear that had kept him silent. She could only look at him.
“Welcome to the Pealigo, my little bride,” he said, and she knew that the man who had not hesitated to murder his two comrades in cold blood would have no mercy on her.
A white-coated stewardess came forward, and said something in a language which Eunice did not understand. She gathered that the woman was deputed to show her the way to the cabin. Glad to be free from the association of Digby, she passed down the companion-way, through a lobby panelled in rosewood, into a cabin, the luxury of which struck her, even though her nerves were shattered, and she was incapable of taking an interest in anything outside the terrible fact that she was alone on a yacht with Digby Groat.
Extravagance had run riot here, and the Brazilian must have lavished a fortune in the decoration and appointments.
The saloon ran the width of the ship and was as deep as it was broad. Light was admitted from portholes cunningly designed, so that they had the appearance of old-fashioned casement windows. A great divan, covered in silk, ran the length of the cabin on one side, whilst the other was occupied by a silver bedstead, hung with rose silk curtains. Rose-shaded lights supplied the illumination, and the lamps were fashioned like torches and were held by beautiful classical figures placed in niches about the room.
She came to the conclusion that it was a woman’s room and wondered if there were any other women on board but the stewardess. She asked that woman, but apparently she knew no English, and the few words in Spanish which she had learnt did not serve her to any extent.
The suite was complete, she discovered, for behind the heavy silken curtains at the far end of the cabin there was a door which gave to a small sitting-room and a bathroom. It must be a woman’s. In truth, it was designed especially by Senor Maxilla for his own comfort.
Lying on the bed was a complete change of clothing. It was brand-new and complete to the last detail. Digby Groat could be very thorough.
She dismissed the woman, and bolting the door, made a complete change, for the third time since she had left Grosvenor Square.
The boat was under way now. She could feel the throb of its engines, and the slight motion that it made in the choppy sea. The Pealigo was one of the best sea boats afloat, and certainly one of the fastest yachts in commission.
She had finished her changing when a knock came at the door and she opened it to find Digby standing on the mat.
“You had better come and have some dinner,” he said.
He was quite his old self, and whatever emotions had disturbed him were now completely under control.
She shrank back and tried to close the floor, but now he was not standing on ceremony. Grasping her arm roughly, he dragged her out into the passage.
“You’re going to behave yourself while you’re on this ship,” he said. “I’m master here, and there is no especial reason why I should show you any politeness.”
“You brute, you beast!” she flamed at him, and he smiled.
“Don’t think that because you’re a woman it is going to save you anything in the way of punishment,” he warned her. “Now be sensible and come along to the dining-saloon.”
“I don’t want to eat,” she said.
“You will come into the dining-saloon whether you want to or not.”
The saloon was empty save for the two and a dark-skinned waiter, and, like her own cabin, it was gorgeously decorated, a veritable palace in miniature, with its dangling electrolier, its flowers, and its marble mantelpiece at the far end.
The table was laid with a delicious meal, but Eunice felt she would choke if she took a morsel.
“Eat,” said Digby, attacking the soup which had been placed before him.
She shook her head.
“If you don’t,” and his eyes narrowed, “if you don’t, my good soul, I will find a way of making you eat,” he said. “Remember,” he put his hand in his pocket, pulled out the hateful little black case (it was wet, she noticed) and laid it on the table, “at any rate, you will be obedient enough when I use this!”
She picked up her spoon meekly and began to drink the soup, and he watched her with an amused smile.
She was surprised to find how hungry she was, and made no attempt to deny the chicken en casserole, nor the sweet that followed, but resolutely she refused to touch the wine that the steward poured out for her, and Digby did not press her.
“You’re a fool, you know, Eunice.” Digby lit a cigar without asking permission, and leaning back in his chair, looked at her critically. “There is a wonderful life ahead for you if you are only intelligent. Why worry about a man like Steele? A poor beggar, without a penny in the world—”