It was in a far from enviable state of mind that I pulled back alone across the estuary after parting with Christine at Pen Mill.
By her own wish I had landed her at the extreme point of the jetty, where, with a whispered farewell, she had climbed ashore and disappeared silently into the mist, leaving me the prey of all sorts of conflicting emotions.
My chief feeling was one of anger with myself for not having prevented her from carrying out her reckless determination. How I could have done so it was difficult to see, but if there was any comfort to be drawn from that fact I certainly failed to discover it. Once more she was beyond the reach of my help, and, in spite of all her efforts to make light of the danger, I knew that the horrible misgivings which assailed my heart were only too well grounded.
Locking up the dinghy in its shed, I made my way back through the shrubbery and let myself into the house. A good fire was still burning away brightly on the hearth, and our teacups and plates were scattered about the table just as we had left them. I thought of ringing for Bascomb and telling him to clear away, but a sudden disinclination to see anyone checked my purpose. I walked across to the fireplace, and, thrusting an empty pipe between my teeth, dropped down again into my customary chair.
There I sat, thinking over Christine's story. She had told it so simply and naturally that even at the time I had felt a curious absence of surprise. Strange as the truth was, it had, too, only confirmed my own belief that somewhere far back in Mr. Richard Jannaway's chequered past lay the real source of all my present troubles. And yet, judged by any conceivable standard of the quiet English countryside about us, what an amazing tale it was! That bloody massacre in the sunlit streets of Rio, the long untiring search for vengeance, the death of my uncle at the very moment when an implacable fate was closing in about him—it all seemed more like the plot of some fantastic drama than a real sequence of actual events in which I was intimately and urgently concerned.
For de Roda himself I felt nothing but the most profound pity. I knew something of South American prisons, and I could well imagine the horrors of that six years' purgatory. To have come through it alive, and then at the last hour to have been cheated out of his revenge, was, in my eyes at least, quite sufficient to excuse the slight trace of homicidal mania with which he appeared to be afflicted.
It was no doubt chiefly due to the diabolical prompting of Manning that he had begun to confuse me with the original object of his hatred. The more I learned about things the more I became convinced that under the easy manner and smiling face of my next-door neighbour there lurked one of the cleverest and most ruthless criminal brains that was ever destined for a medical museum. His popularity in the district, and the entire absence of suspicion with which everyone seemed to regard him, only served to strengthen my belief. I wondered much what his past history had really been, and whether Inspector Campbell's researches would have any practical result. There had been an air of quiet assurance about that stolid Scotsman which had inspired me with considerable hope, and as the memory of his determined chin and his shrewd grey eyes rose up in my mind, I suddenly realised that the time had come when I should be well advised to take him fully into my confidence. After all, de Roda had committed no crime against the laws of England. If we could get him out of Manning's clutches he might yet be made to realise that instead of seeking to rob him I was only too anxious to lend him a helping hand. Of course he could not be allowed to walk off with the diamonds, much as I sympathised with his view on the subject. Still, if what Christine had told me were correct, the present Brazilian Government would doubtless be prepared to fork out a handsome reward for their recovery, and that would at least provide some compensation for all the shabby tricks that fate had played him.
For my part, I wanted nothing in the world except Christine. Some men are so constituted that they are able to fall in love half a dozen times, while with others every emotional capacity seems to store itself up for one supreme experience. It had been so in my own case. Until then the remarkable state of ecstasy, in which at various times I had seen several of my friends engulfed, had always struck me as being a little difficult to account for. I was no longer troubled by this apparent problem. My heart thrilled with a strange, inexpressible happiness, which not even my anxiety for Christine's safety was able to destroy. Everything which had been missing in life seemed suddenly to have come to me, and, almost forgetting the danger in which we still stood, I allowed my fancies to drift out into that golden future where lovers have wandered from the very dawn of time.
How long I lay there day-dreaming I really cannot say. I know that I was brought back to earth by the fall of a burned-out log, and, looking up at the clock, I saw to my surprise that the time was close on a quarter to seven. It struck me as curious that Bascomb had not yet been in to clear away the tea things, for such an oversight was altogether contrary to his usual methodical habits. Wondering what he was doing, I roused myself out of my chair and crossed the hall to the baize door. I called his name twice, and then, as he failed to answer, I walked along the passage as far as the kitchen. There was no sign of him there, nor did my investigations in the scullery and pantry produce any better result.
With a vague feeling of uneasiness I made my way to the back entrance, which I found unlocked, and stepped out into the garden.
"Bascomb!" I shouted. "Bascomb!"
Once more a complete silence was my only reply.
Puzzled, and not a little upset, I stood peering out into the fog, which still shrouded everything in impenetrable gloom. Unless he had gone down to the boat-house I could not imagine where on earth he had got to, for if he were anywhere close at hand he must certainly have heard me calling. It was so unlike him, however, to disappear in this fashion, just when he ought to have been preparing dinner, that all my former doubts as to whether he was quite in his right senses came back to me with renewed vigour.
Having pondered over the situation for a few moments, I decided that the best thing to do was to go out at once and have a look for him. It was not a particularly inviting prospect, but, on the other hand, the evening was closing in rapidly, and it would soon be too dark to see one's way about. So, stepping back into the house, I picked up a cap from the hall table, and then, after carefully closing and locking the back door, I once more climbed over the railings, and started off to grope my way along the shrubbery path.
By the time I reached the small iron gate which lead out on to the foreshore I was beginning to feel uncommonly anxious. I passed through this, letting it clang noisily behind me, and before I had taken another half dozen paces the low roof of the boathouse suddenly loomed into view.
The first thing that caught my attention was the door. Instead of being shut, as I had left it, it was now wide open, and, naturally concluding that Bascomb must be inside, I walked towards it with a considerable feeling of relief.
A moment later I was standing on the threshold staring blankly in front of me. The place was as empty as a barn. Not only was there no trace of Bascomb, but in addition to that the dinghy itself was also missing.
I don't know why it had not occurred to me till then that he might have gone ashore, but somehow or other the discovery took me utterly by surprise. During the whole time that I had been on the island he had never yet left me alone without first coming to ask my permission, and I suppose I had begun to regard this as a kind of inevitable rite. At least I can think of no other way to account for the sensation of aggrieved astonishment with which I remained there gazing round the deserted shed.
Being eventually struck by the futility of my proceedings, I came out on to the landing-stage, and stepped forward to the very edge of the water. In all directions a solid blanket of grey mist stretched before my eyes, while, except for the sound of my own footsteps, everything was as silent as the grave.
That Bascomb should have deserted me in this extraordinary fashion was a thing which even now I found it hard to believe. There was only one conclusion to be drawn from the evidence, however, and that was that as soon as he had heard me return he had slipped away quietly with the extra key of the boat-house and had gone off alone in the dinghy. Why he should have chosen my dinner-time for his excursion was a mystery, but, queer as he might be, I felt convinced that he must have had some very definite purpose at the back of his mind.
I tried to put myself in his place, and all of a sudden a startling but far from impossible idea suggested itself. Supposing he had gone to the barge! Supposing that, in his mad fury at the death of Satan, he had set off single-handed to try to wreak his vengeance upon Manning and Craill!
Straining my eyes, I stared vainly through the mist in the direction he would have taken. If I were right there was no saying what cheerful work might even now be in full swing, for I knew enough of all the three principal actors to be quite certain that none of them would stick at trifles, and yet, without a boat, I was powerless to interfere. Until Bascomb returned or somebody else came over from Pen Mill I was as much a prisoner as Napoleon on St. Helena.
At the very moment when this unpleasant truth was forcing itself into my mind the almost uncanny stillness was broken by a low whistle. I turned round sharply, and then six times in quick succession the same sound repeated itself from somewhere close about me. It was the call of a whimbrel—that queer, mournful note which, according to every fisherman along the east coast, is the sure herald of death or disaster.
For a sailor I don't think I am particularly superstitious. All the same, there was something so weird and ominous in that unexpected cry that just for an instant I felt as if a cold hand had suddenly been placed against my heart. Then, by a big effort, I managed to pull myself together. With a kind of impatient anger at my own idiocy I stepped down off the landing-stage, and, walking back to the boat-house, had another look at the interior.
There was nothing further to be learned there. Bascomb and the dinghy had both vanished beyond a doubt, and the only thing I could do was to await their return with such philosophy as I had at my command. After all, it was just possible that he had crossed over to Pen Mill. In view of his somewhat distracting day, he might have overlooked the fact that we were short of food, and have hurried off to remedy the deficiency at the last possible moment. I can't say I had very much faith in this conjecture, but it did at least provide me with a gleam of hope. Anyhow, having once more closed the door, I abandoned the shed to its own desolation, and set off in a shade better spirits on my return journey to the house.
The first thing I did on getting back into the hall was to go to the sideboard and mix myself a drink. I have always found that I can bear suspense better with the aid of a good stiff whisky and soda—a peculiarity which I share with Bobby Dean and most of my naval acquaintances. Carrying the tumbler to the hearth, I placed it within convenient reach upon a neighbouring table, and then, having thrown another log upon the fire, I sat down deliberately to wait upon events.
For the best part of an hour I maintained my solitary vigil, the only interruption being the chiming of the dock, which hammered out every quarter with what sounded to me like a kind of malicious amusement. I bore it doggedly until close on half-past eight, by which time I had begun to feel so devilish empty that my stock of patience was rapidly exhausting itself. It was long past my usual dinner hour, and the experiences I had been through that afternoon were scarcely the sort to blunt the edge of a naturally healthy appetite.
A tour of inspection to the larder resulted in the discovery of half a cold chicken which had apparently been left over from my last meal. In addition to this I also succeeded in routing out a stale loaf and a promising-looking Cheddar cheese. Though not quite up to my usual standard, it was a good enough banquet for a really hungry man, so without bothering about a table-cloth or any other superfluous details, I carried the whole lot back to the hall, and settled down to repair my wasted energies.
By the time I had finished nine o'clock had already struck. Except for the flickering gleam of the fire I should long ago have been in complete darkness, and, feeling that a little extra illumination would not be amiss, I got up to light the lamp. Before doing so, however, I took the precaution of closing the shutters. In the absence of Satan anyone could steal up to the verandah without being detected, and it would be a sideways sort of ending to be shot through the window just when my affairs seemed to be approaching a really interesting climax.
Having guarded against the possibility of this disaster, I proceeded to make myself comfortable for the evening. Tired as I was, I had no intention of going to bed as long as there was any reasonable chance of Bascomb's return. Even if I did so, I should certainly be unable to sleep, and I should probably have the additional joy of being hauled out in the middle of the night in order to unbolt the door and let him into the house.
So, providing myself with one of Uncle Richard's biggest cigars, I refilled my glass again, and wheeled the sofa round in front of the fire. Then, taking Manning's revolver out of my pocket, I laid it carefully on the table beside my tumbler. Although its original owner might still be too indisposed to threaten any immediate danger, there were always Craill and de Roda to be considered. Either of them might take it into his head to pay me a surprise call, and, mentally afflicted as I believed them both to be, they were the sort of visitors for whom it was just as well to be fully prepared.
The warmth and stillness of the room soon began to affect me with such a pleasant sense of drowsiness that I found some difficulty in keeping myself awake. In order to assist in the process, I started going over again in my own mind the whole tangled skein of events which had led up to the present crisis. It was an interesting exercise, and, apart from that, it served a double purpose. I was determined to make a clean breast of everything to Bobby the next morning, and, if his advice was to be of any value, it was highly essential that the version I gave him should be an absolutely correct and unprejudiced one.
Ten, eleven, and twelve all struck in turn, but outside the house the silence of the night remained unbroken by the faintest sound or movement. Towards one o'clock my desire for sleep became positively overwhelming. By this time any hope I had ever had of Bascomb's putting in an appearance had practically ceased to exist, and it seemed worse than useless to tire myself out to no purpose just when I might need every ounce of energy and intelligence that I could possibly rake together.
I debated for a moment as to whether I should go upstairs and get into bed. The prospect had its attractions, but, on the other hand, I felt extremely comfortable where I was, and from a strategic point of view the position could hardly be improved upon. As long as I remained in the hall no one could break into the house without waking me. If I were fast asleep upstairs in my bedroom the odds would be altogether in favour of the visitor, and since the safety of my throat appeared to be the stake at issue, this consideration was quite enough to turn the scale.
By an heroic effort I roused myself sufficiently to make a final inspection of the back premises, in order to be quite certain that all the window fastenings were properly hasped. Satisfied on this point I returned to my couch, and, taking off my collar and tie (the only form of undressing that I attempted), I dropped back on to the cushions with a little grunt of contentment. I just remember seeing the gleam of the lamp reflected on Manning's revolver, and then, as far as I was concerned, that weapon and all the remaining troubles of life were suddenly and completely blotted out of existence.
When I woke up again it was to find myself in semi-darkness. The lamp had gone out, and the only light there was filtered in dimly through the cracks in the shutters. Everything looked very cold and depressing and for a minute or two I lay there staring vaguely round the room, and wondering how long I had been asleep.
At last, with considerable reluctance, I sat up and pulled out my watch.
I expected the time to be between six and seven, but to my utter amazement the hands, which were just visible pointed distinctly to a quarter past ten. I thought at first that the damned thing must have stopped, but on putting it to my ear I found that it was ticking away merrily.
Thoroughly roused now, I scrambled to my feet, and, crossing to the window, unbolted one of the shutters. As I threw it back a flood of daylight poured into the room, and an instinctive glance up at the clock merely helped to confirm the previous verdict.
Under the circumstances the fact that I had managed to oversleep myself was not without its comic side. It was the sort of thing that would tickle Bobby immensely, but, as far as I was concerned, there were too many other pressing considerations to give my own sense of humour a sporting chance.
Opening the window, I stepped out on to the verandah. Though still leaving a good deal to be desired, the weather had actually improved during the night. In place of the fog there was now only a thin drifting mist, which barely obscured the opposite trees. One or two birds were chirping away in the shrubbery, while overhead a lemon-coloured, watery-looking sun was striving bravely to make its belated appearance.
Slightly cheered by these discoveries, I walked back into the hall. Unless things were very much worse out at sea there was nothing to prevent Bobby from running down the coast in his motor-launch. It would be necessary for him to go a bit carefully, of course. Even under such conditions, however, the passage was a comparatively short one, and, provided he had been able to get away in good time, any moment might bring him to the island.
Knowing Robert, it seemed to me that the sooner I fixed up something in the way of breakfast the better. He would probably have contented himself with a cup of coffee before starting, and I could hardly expect him to listen intelligently to a long story until he had backed it up with a little solid nourishment.
As a first step towards this desired end I set about lighting the fire. It proved an evasive job, but, having at last persuaded it to burn, I opened the remainder of the shutters and carted away the debris of my previous night's feast. Leaving this on the kitchen table, I prowled off once more to the larder, where I had noticed a basin of eggs during my former investigations.
Heaven knew how long they had been there, but it was no time for indulging in any false delicacy. I brought them into the hall, together with a pot of marmalade and what was left of the bread and butter, and then, after laying the table and putting on a kettle to boil, I began to think with some favour of a well-earned wash and shave.
I had actually reached the foot of the staircase when a sound from outside pulled me up short. It was the unmistakable clang of the garden gate, and, hurrying towards the verandah, I saw to my delight a sturdy figure in naval uniform advancing across the grass.
With a joyous shout I flung back the window and stepped forward to meet him.
"This is splendid, Bobby," I said. "You're just in time for breakfast."
He came up to me, grinning cheerfully, and wrung my hand in a double-fisted grip.
"I'm glad to hear it, my lad," he said, "and I'm still more glad to see you looking so devilish well. After your alarming note I expected to find nothing but a nasty mess on the carpet."
"You were always an optimist," I remarked. "Come along inside and make yourself useful. You can attend to the tea while I run upstairs and have a wash and shave."
He followed me over the threshold, and, tossing his cap on to the sofa, established himself in a comfortable position in front of the fire.
"Where's that sunny-faced butler of yours?" he enquired. "Doesn't he like early rising?"
"For the time being," I replied, "Bascomb is off the map. You shall hear everything if you'll wait a minute, but it's a long yarn, and I don't want to start telling you in bits and pieces."
"Right you are," he drawled. "You bung along off and wash your face. I'll look after the kettle and answer the front door."
Leaving him in the act of lighting a cigarette, I retired upstairs to the bathroom, where with the aid of a cold swill and a hasty shave I managed to make myself a little more presentable.
I got back to the hall just in time to catch Bobby emerging through the baize door with a saucepan in his hand.
"You must excuse the liberty," he remarked, "but I couldn't find anything to boil the eggs in."
"I am afraid we are a trifle disorganized," I confessed. "The fact is we have had a lot of trouble in the family in the last twenty-four hours." I paused. "By the way," I added, "what have you done with your crew? I suppose you didn't come down here single handed?"
"I brought one chap with me," was the reply. "I left him on board down at the landing-stage. He's all right. He'll sit there on his little behind until further orders."
I took the saucepan away from him and motioned him towards a chair.
"That's your programme also, old dear," I said. "I'll finish getting the breakfast ready, and I'll talk to you at the same time. You freeze yourself into that pew and listen to me as you never listened to anyone in your life."
There must have been something in my manner which showed that I was in dead earnest, for without another word Bobby seated himself at the table.
I put the saucepan on the fire and stood up facing him.
"It pains me to confess it, Robert," I said, "but the last time you were here I'm afraid I wasn't quite straight with you."
"I had an idea you were keeping something up your sleeve," he replied. "It takes a lot of practice to make a really convincing liar."
I nodded a little sadly. "Yes," I said, "honesty was always a handicap of mine—especially in the Service."
A sudden hiss from the kettle attracted my attention, and, stepping forward, I picked up the teapot.
"You're going to hear the real truth now, Bobby," I added, "and don't you dare to open your mouth again until I've got it off my chest."
Long and complicated as my story was, the whole thing had burned itself into my mind so vividly that I was in no danger of forgetting the smallest detail. I enjoyed, too, the additional advantage of having rehearsed it the previous night, and when once I started I found myself going ahead with amazing fluency. Without attempting to skip anything, I told him exactly what had occurred from the fateful moment when Christine and her uncle had arrived on board the Neptune in Manaos Harbour. He already knew, of course, about my interview with Mr. Drayton and my adventure in the dock, but all the rest of it was, so to speak, fresh ground, and I did not think there was much chance of his finding my narrative either tedious or redundant.
To say that this confidence was justified would be putting it at its mildest. Munching his food and sipping his tea, he followed every word with an expression of absorbed interest that never varied from start to finish. Once or twice he interrupted me to ask a question, but otherwise he sat there in profound silence, his blue eyes fixed steadily on mine.
Bit by bit I proceeded to unravel the whole tangled skein of my adventures, until I at last reached the point when the clang of the garden gate had announced his own arrival upon the scene.
"I don't want to appear emotional," I concluded, "but I must admit the sight of your ugly mug filled me with the most inexpressible joy." I paused to moisten my lips, which were as dry as parchment. "That's as far as we've got up to the present, Robert," I added, "and now for heaven's sake let's have a drink."
"Well, the first thing's easy," remarked Bobby, as he accepted the tumbler which I offered him. "Here's to Christine, and if she's half as nice as she sounds you're the luckiest beggar that ever trod this planet."
We drained the toast in silence, and then, putting down his glass, he hoisted himself out of his chair and walked across to the window.
"That's that," he observed grimly, "and——"
I saw him pull up with curious abruptness, and stand there perfectly still staring out into the garden.
"What's the matter?" I demanded.
He looked back over his shoulder with a queer smile on his lips.
"I don't know if you're expecting any visitors," he began.
Before he could conclude his sentence I was standing alongside of him.
Crossing the lawn and coming directly towards the house were two figures. One was an enormously stout, broad-shouldered man, whom I recognised immediately as the landlord of the Gunner's Arms; the other was a police sergeant in uniform.
Bobby was the first to break the silence. "We seem to have finished the story just in time," he said drily.
Without making any reply, I unlatched the window and threw it open.
The two men came up to the verandah side by side and halted exactly in front of us.
For a moment nobody spoke; then the landlord, who was breathing heavily, stepped forward and touched his cap.
"Beg pardon, Mr. Dryden," he said huskily, "but this is Sergeant 'Umphries of Torrington. He wants to have a word with you."
"Why, certainly," I replied. "Come inside, both of you."
I moved back, and, mounting the verandah, they tramped in heavily over the threshold.
"I expect you know Commander Dean," I added, "at all events by sight."
There was an exchange of salutes, followed once more by an embarrassing silence.
"Well," I said encouragingly, "what is it? Anything I can do for you?"
Sergeant Humphries cleared his throat
"I'm afraid I come on rather an unpleasant business, Mr. Dryden," he began. "I believe you have a man in your employment name of John Bascombe?"
A sudden feeling of impending tragedy tightened round my heart.
"That's right," I said. "He has been with me ever since I came here."
"Do you happen to know where he is now?"
I shook my head. "He went ashore last night without my permission, and so far he hasn't returned."
There was another pause.
"He won't return," said the Sergeant, "and if you want to know the reason why I can tell you, Mr. Dryden. At the present moment he's lying dead in the stable at the Gunner's Arms.”