Followed the most important part of the message, "All hands saved from Arran Dhu."
"Spell their names while you're about it," ordered the Old Man, as an afterthought.
Making the name "Ensor" presented little difficulty. "Woodward" was a complicated affair when made out in code, involving three separate hoists of four flags each. So the Golden Vanity's bosun hit upon the ingenious idea of making two small hoists:—ZHN for "Wood", and YUF for "Ward". By this time the S.S. Denham was well astern.
"Your people will get that message before you're missed," remarked Captain Corbold to the chums. "So that's all right. Nothing to worry about."
"Thanks awfully, sir," replied Geoff. "We were half afraid you'd put us off on that craft."
For a moment the Old Man eyed him quizzically.
"Let's hope that before this voyage is finished, you won't be sorry I didn't," he remarked.
CHAPTER XI. The Peregrinations of Mason
"I wish to see Mr. Gordon."
The office boy at the financier's business premises was rather taken aback by the peremptory ring in the caller's voice. Clients who paid personal visits to Mr. Gordon—these were rare, since the latter preferred doing business through the medium of the facilities afforded by the Postmaster-General—usually made their request for an interview in a subdued, hesitating manner, as if fully conscious of the force of the vulgar saying "Money talks".
"Appointment, sir?"
"Yes," replied the caller briskly.
Mr. Theodore Mason, junior reporter on the staff of The Yachtman's Fortnightly, was perfectly truthful. He had an appointment, but it had not been fixed by Mr. Gordon.
The youthful Cerebus did not allow Mason to pass without further palaver.
"Your name, sir, please; and have you a card?"
Mr. Mason handed the boy a piece of pasteboard. The precocious youngster read it and pursed his lips. His employer, he knew, was very reluctant to give interviews to Press representatives. He had very good cause to remember a grave lapse on his part when on one occasion he allowed a pressman of The Searchlight to beard the financier in his den.
Yet the name The Yachtsman's Fortnightly did not strike him as unfavourably as The Searchlight. His "boss" he recalled, was a yachtsman, for had he not put in an appearance one Saturday morning rigged out in blue reefer coat and trousers, and sporting a white-covered peaked cap, resplendent with a gilt badge, at an absurd tilt on his woolly hair?
Mr. Gordon studied the reporter's card most thoroughly. He loathed publicity except in such cases where he acted as his own Press agent. The sight of a newspaper representative generally gave him a nasty jar. He had never heard of The Yachtsman's Fortnightly; it might be a ruse on the part of The Searchlight and kindred journals to get in direct touch with the elusive financier.
"Did you say I was in?" he demanded.
"No, sir," replied the boy. "He took it as if he knew you were."
"Then ask him to write down his business," continued Mr. Gordon, flicking the card across his desk.
Presently the boy returned with a pencilled note: "Business concerns Arran Dhu."
"By Jove!" thought Gordon hopefully, "I wonder if she's lost. Bring Mr.—er—Mason up, Charles."
He rose, affability personified, to greet his caller.
"I believe you are the owner of Arran Dhu," began Mason, coming straight to the point. "The Chief sent me along for certain particulars."
Mr. Gordon held up his hand. He wanted time to think. Mason's opening sentence, "—you are the owner," did not suggest a total loss. Had he said "were the owner" Gordon would have been ready to fall on his neck in a figurative sense.
"I'm afraid I'm not in a position to give particulars, Mr. Mason," he remarked. "When last I saw the yacht she was at Falmouth."
"Then you've heard nothing of the disaster?"
"Disaster?"
"Serious mishap, then. Our Penzance representative wired us that Arran Dhu was towed into Newlyn by a steam drifter. She was picked up thirty miles S.S.E. of the Lizard afloat, but derelict with a heavy list. The crew of the drifter report that an attempt had been made to cut away the mast. They had to complete the task with the result that the yacht, half full of water, regained practically an even keel."
"Pity the confounded yacht hadn't sunk in deep water," thought Gordon, realizing that by the terms of his insurance policy he would have to pay fifty pounds sterling towards the cost of making good the damage.
"It's fortunate they brought the yacht in," he remarked. "Things might have been worse."
"They are," rejoined the reporter gravely. "Her dinghy, badly damaged, was washed ashore at Par, a few miles west of Fowey. Our local representative learned that the yacht left Penzance with you and two paid hands. Might I inquire under what circumstances you left the yacht? Until I called at your office I was under the impression that you were on board when the disaster occurred. In fact, I never expected to find you here."
"Yet you asked to see me?"
"As a matter of form," replied the reporter.
"Well, Mr. Mason, I must decline to give any further particulars until I have been in communication with the underwriters. You will readily understand how even a slight case of misrepresentation might cause endless trouble when dealing with insurance matters."
"Not as far as The Yachtsman's Fortnightly is concerned, Mr. Gordon," declared the Pressman. "Before my report goes to Press you will be given every opportunity to see the proof-slips."
"All the same I must decline——"
"But it is not a personal matter," interrupted Mason, bridling at Mr. Gordon's manner. "Evidence goes to prove that there has been loss of life. The relatives of the crew should—must be informed. You will not object, I take it, to furnishing me with their names and addresses?"
"I can't tell you," declared Gordon, shifting uneasily under the reporter's steadfast gaze.
"Can't; why not?"
"Because I don't know."
"Don't know? Surely you didn't engage a professional crew without obtaining particulars required by the Board of Trade?"
"They weren't professionals."
"Then who were they?"
Mr. Gordon recovered himself with a determined effort.
"I've already refused to give your paper, or in fact any paper, further details at present, Mr. Mason," he said loftily. "So I must wish you good day."
The financier never made a greater mistake than when he attempted to ride the high horse with Mason of The Yachtsman's Fortnightly. He realized the fact almost as soon as the door of his private office was closed. He foresaw trouble, not only on account of the missing amateur crew, but with the underwriters. He drew mental pictures of having to pay out fifty pounds and still have the unlucky Arran Dhu on his hands. With her unenviable reputation no one would be likely to purchase her except for breaking up purposes.
Meanwhile Mason made a hurried journey to the office of his paper. To Hammond, the editor, he made a plain, unvarnished report, purposely refraining from offering surmises.
Hammond, quick to seize the opportunity for a scoop, nodded approvingly.
"I don't suppose the lay Press will do much in the matter," he remarked. "Yachting affairs, for some reason, hardly attract their notice. When they do give yachting items they generally make a hash of things. Our Press day's Thursday. That gives us three clear days. The rival rag's out to-day, so they won't have a chance until Monday next. Off you go to Penzance and Newlyn, Mason. Eye-witness' statements if you can; master of the drifter's yarn, for instance. You didn't get the name of the Insurance Company?"