“You thought I’d gone “—he lifted her, still struggling, and carried her back to the saloon. “I want to see you,” he breathed; “to see your face, your glorious eyes, that wonderful mouth of yours, Eunice.” He pressed his lips against hers; he smothered with kisses her cheeks, her neck, her eyes.
She felt herself slipping from consciousness; the very horror of his caresses froze and paralysed her will to struggle. She could only gaze at the eyes so close to hers, fascinated as by the glare of the deadly snake.
“You are mine now, mine, do you hear?” he murmured into her ear. “You will forget Jim Steele, forget everything except that I adore you,” and then he saw her wild gaze pass him to the door, and turned.
The little captain stood there, his hands on his hips, watching, his brown face a mask.
Digby released his hold of the girl, and turned on the sailor.
“What the hell are you doing here? Get out,” he almost screamed.
“There is an aeroplane looking for us,” said the captain. “We have just picked up her wireless.”
Digby’s jaw dropped. That possibility had not occurred to him.
“Who is she? What does the wireless say?”
“It is a message we picked up saying, ‘Nothing sighted. Am heading due south.’ It gave her position,” added the captain, “and if she is coming due south I think Mr. Steele will find us.”
Digby fell back a pace, his face blanched.
“Steele,” he gasped.
The captain nodded.
“That is the gentleman who signs the message. I think it would be advisable for you to come on deck.”
“I’ll come on deck when I want,” growled Digby. There was a devil in him now. He was at the end of his course, and he was not to be thwarted.
“Will the good gentleman come on deck?”
“I will come later. I have some business to attend to here.”
“You can attend to it on deck,” said the little captain calmly.
“Get out,” shouted Digby.
The captain’s hand did not seem to move; there was a shot, the deafening explosion of which filled the cabin, and a panel behind Digby’s head splintered into a thousand pieces.
He glared at the revolver in the Brazilian’s hand, unable to realize what had happened.
“I could have shot you just as easily,” said the Brazilian calmly, “but I preferred to send the little bullet near your ear. Will you come on deck, please?”
Digby Groat obeyed.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
WHITE and breathless he leant against the bulwark glowering at the Brazilian, who had come between him and the woman whose rum he had planned.
“Now,” he said, “you will tell me what you mean by this, you swine!”
“I will tell you many things that you will not like to hear,” said the captain.
A light dawned upon Digby.
“Did you give the girl that revolver?”
The Brazilian nodded.
“I desired to save you from yourself, my friend,” he said. “In an hour the gentleman Steele will be within sight of us; I can tell where he is within a few miles. Do you wish that he should come on board and discover that you have added something to murder that is worse than murder?”
“That is my business,” said Digby Groat, breathing so quickly that he felt he would suffocate unless the pent-up rage in him found some vent.
“And mine,” said the captain, tapping him on the chest. “I tell you, my fine fellow, that that is my business also, for I do not intend to live within an English gaol. It is too cold in England and I would not survive one winter. No, my fine fellow, there is only one thing to do. It is to run due west in the hope that we escape the observation of the airship man; if we do not, then we are—” He snapped his fingers.
“Do as you like,” said Digby, and turning abruptly walked down to his cabin.
He was beaten, and the end was near. He took from a drawer a small bottle of colourless liquid, and emptied its contents into a glass. This he placed in a rack conveniently to his hand. The effect would not be violent. One gulp, and he would pass to sleep and there the matter would end for him. That was a comforting thought to Digby Groat.
If they escaped—! His mind turned to Eunice. She could wait; perhaps they would dodge through all these guards that the police had put, and they would reach that land for which he yearned. He could not expect the captain, after receiving the wireless messages of warning, to take the risks. He was playing for safety, thought Digby, and did not wholly disapprove of the man’s attitude.
When they were on the high seas away from the ocean traffic, the little Brazilian would change his attitude, and then—Digby nodded. The captain was wise; it would have been madness on his part to force the issue so soon.
Eunice could not get away; they were moving in the same direction to a common destination, and there were weeks, hot and sunny weeks, when they could sit under the awning on this beautiful yacht and talk. He would be rational and drop that cave-man method of wooing. A week’s proximity and freedom from restraint might make all the difference in the world, if—There was a big if, he recognized. Steele would not rest until he had found him, but by that time Eunice might be a complacent partner.
He felt a little more cheerful, locked away the glass and its contents in a cupboard, and strolled up to the deck. He saw the ship now for the first time in daylight, and it was a model of what a yacht should be. The deck was snowy white; every piece of brass-work glittered, the coiled sheets looked to have been dipped in chalk, and under that identical awning great basket chairs awaited him invitingly.
He glanced round the horizon; there was no ship in sight. The sea sparkled in the rays of the sun, and over the white wake of the steamer lay a deep black pall of smoke, for the Pealigo was racing forward at twenty-two knots an hour. The captain, at any rate, was not playing him false. He was heading west, judged Digby.
Far away on the right was an irregular purple strip, the line of the Irish coast; the only traffic they would meet now, he considered, was the western-bound steamers on the New York route. But the only sign of a steamer was a blob of smoke on the far-off eastern horizon.
The chairs invited him, and he sat down and stretched his legs luxuriously.
Yes, this was a better plan, he thought, and as his mind turned again to Eunice, she appeared at the head of the companion-way. At first she did not see him, and walking to the rail, seemed to be breathing in the beauties of the morning.
How exquisite she looked! He did not remember seeing a woman who held herself as she did. The virginal purity of her face, the glory of her colouring, the svelte woman figure of her—they were worth waiting for, he told himself again.
She turned her head and saw him and made a movement as though she were going back to her cabin, but he beckoned to her, and to his surprise, she walked slowly toward him.
“Don’t get up,” she said coldly. “I can find a chair myself. I want to speak to you, Mr. Groat.”
“You want to speak to me,” he said in amazement, and she nodded.
“I have been thinking that perhaps I can induce you to turn this yacht about and land me in England.”
“Oh, you have, have you?” he said sharply. “What inducement can you offer other than your gracious self?”
“Money,” she answered. “I do not know by what miracle it has happened, but I believe I am an heiress, and worth”—she hesitated—“a great deal of money. If that is the case, Mr. Groat, you are poor.”