"No, sir," replied Mason. Then with unusual lack of discretion, he asked: "Do you suspect anything?"
"I suspect nothing," rejoined Hammond drily. "I want facts. Get them!"
That evening Mason found himself in Penzance. He had previously telegraphed to The Yachtsman's Fortnightly local representative—a keen youth named Tregenna who was on the station platform to meet him.
Together they taxied to Newlyn. The steam-drifter that had towed the Arran Dhu in had put out soon after noon. The luckless yacht lay aground, listing slightly over towards the hard granite wall of the tidal harbour.
"She dropped her keel," explained Tregenna. "If you don't mind walking on mud—it isn't very thick—you can see the damage."
"I'll take your word for it," replied Mason. "The mast, I understand, was cut away before the drifter's men could get her on an even keel?"
"Yes, but someone, probably the yacht's crew, had tried to do so before."
"I suppose you don't know the names of the crew?"
"Of the two men who left here with Gordon? Yes; but that won't be of much use. They left the yacht—had a row with the owner—and came home. The Arran Dhu was lying on moorings in Falmouth Harbour when they paid themselves off."
"I'd like to see one of them," said Mason.
"Right-o," agreed Tregenna. "Jim Polberro is the handiest to find. He lives in Carter's Ope. It's not far."
In spite of the lateness of the hour Jim Polberro had not turned in. He had no hesitation concerning his willingness to tell all he knew. Mason listened patiently to the long story of Gordon's incapacity and cowardice and how the two paid hands, having worked the yacht into Falmouth Harbour, had declined to remain with the owner.
Actually Mason had learnt little. He already knew the essential points of what had happened to the Arran Dhu between Penzance and Falmouth. He was still in the dark as to the identity of the two individuals who took the yacht out of Falmouth Harbour.
The paid hand's story made good "copy" but something else was required. Mason determined to go to Falmouth.
It was too late that night; but early next morning the obliging Tregenna ran him to Falmouth in the side-car of his motor-bike. Eight o'clock found Mason, faint yet pursuing, at Green Bank.
By a rare slice of luck the first person he addressed was Old Garge who, taking advantage of the ebb tide, was scrubbing a boat on the hard.
"Do I knaw t'Arran Doo? Sartain sure. A lil' black cutter-plank-on-edge sort, she be."
"That's the craft," rejoined Mason. "Do you happen to know the names of her crew? I know the owner's name."
Old Garge glanced keenly at his questioner.
"Be they wrong 'uns?" he asked, suspiciously. "Happen you'm a plain-clothes officer?"
"No, I'm not," protested Mason, slipping half a crown into the man's hand. Clearly Old Garge had not heard of the mishap to the yacht. The reporter realized that the best course to pursue was to be frank with the man. "I am a journalist—a reporter. I represent The Yachtsman's Fortnightly. The Arran Dhu was found abandoned and towed into Newlyn, No one seems to know what has become of her crew. We are anxious to find out their names."
Old Garge shook his head.
"That I don't know, sir," he said. "Two nice young genl'men they wur, sir. Amatoors, but I will say as 'ow they knowed something about 'andling a yot."
"Did you speak to them?"
"Ay, that I did. 'Enery an' Bill an' Amos Polgerrick an' me was a-arguing wi' 'er owner. Says 'e: 'Will aught o' ye sail this 'ere yot round up-along?' Says I, 'Not for fifty pun, but I'll show you a couple o' young gents who happen'll tek it on.' An' I sort o' interdooced 'em tu 'en."
"But how did you know they wanted to take charge of the yacht?" asked Mason.
"'Cause they 'ad told me they wur making a trip in Norna. There she be, that lil' white yawl. Seems as 'ow Mr. 'Arrison—'im bein' t'owner, me bein' in charge o' she—'ad arranged to take 'em for a lil' cruise, only 'e 'ad an accident like and broke 'is leg an' whatnot. So I thought, seein' as Mr. 'Arrison wurn't able, these young gen'l'men would tak on Arran Doo. Fulish-loike I misremembered tu ax their names."
"Does Mr. Harrison live in the neighbourhood?"
"'E does, an' 'e doesn't in a manner o' speaking, sir," replied Old Garge. "'Ome's up tu Lunnon, but e's in Penycuil Cottage 'Orspital, a matter o' twenty mile out Bodmin way."
"I must run over to Penycuil," decided Mason.
"Right-o," rejoined Tregenna. "Time's my own in a way. I'll take you."
Actually it was eighteen miles of hilly road. Forty minutes from the time of leaving Falmouth Mason, aching in every limb, was deposited on the doorstep of Penycuil Cottage Hospital.
Mr. Harrison, considerably upset by the news, was only too ready to give all the information he could. To Mason's great satisfaction, he gave the name of the two lads—Bernard Woodward and Geoff Ensor.
"I don't know either of them personally," continued Norna's owner. "I got into communication with them through the medium of your paper, Mr. Mason. Unfortunately I haven't their letter with me, but if my memory serves me right, they wrote from Greystone College. You know where that is, I presume?"
Mason did. His face fell. Here was an unexpected snag in the stream of hitherto successful investigations. Greystone was a long way off. More than likely the whole of the staff were away during the holidays. In any case a pre-paid telegram would not be likely to obtain the desired information. Time was too precious to spend in writing, on the off-chance of either Woodward's or Ensor's home address being forthcoming.
"Now I come to think of it," continued Mr. Harrison, "Young Ensor mentioned in his letter that his father was in practice in Poole as a solicitor. Why he gave that piece of information I don't know. Possibly to impress me. Why not call in at Poole on your way back to town?"
It did not take Mason long to decide. He was used to rapid and generally sound decisions. Besides being a whale for work, he possessed a qualification that many reporters lack—tact when dealing with painful subjects. In addition to obtaining as full a report as possible concerning the Arran Dhu business he had, as far as he was aware, to break the news that Ensor and his chum were presumably lost at sea. He might have telephoned to Mr. Ensor at Poole, but the telephone is at best a crude means of communicating news of this description.
He decided to take train to Poole.
He knew that it would be a long, tedious, and round-about journey, but his energy was unbounded. Although he had had but little sleep he felt perfectly fresh. The hours taken by the railway journey could well be spent in writing off "copy" to date.
His Cornish colleague ran him back in the side-car to Truro, whence he booked through to Salisbury. At the latter place he transferred to another Company's line, and found that he had forty minutes to wait before the Poole train left.
"Evenin' paper, sir?"
Mason bought a copy and commenced to scan the headlines. Presently he caught sight of an item headed: "A MYSTERY OF THE SEA".
It ran as follows:
"The S.S. Denham, on arriving at East India Docks, reported having received the following message from the S.S. Golden Vanity—'All hands saved from Arundel, Ensor Wood washed overboard'. The Master of the Denham also added that his position when the message was signalled was approximately 7° 15´ W.; 48° 20´ N. Asked whether he had the message repeated, Captain Cole replied that owing to the distance between the two vessels such a course was impracticable. According to Lloyds the only Arundel flying the British flag was reported as having left Karachi for Rangoon on Monday last."