A hand gripped his shoulder as though in a vise, and swung him around; the muzzle of an automatic confronted him, and behind it the threatening eyes of Joe glared directly into his own.
"Not a move, you damned spy," a voice said coldly. "Now, Mark, frisk the cuss, and be lively about it. Had a gun, hey; I thought so. Give it to me. Now get the cord over there and give him a turn or two. A very good job, old boy; the fellow is safe enough, I should say."
He turned his eyes away, searching the cabin, confident that West was sufficiently secured.
"Come on out, Mary," he said sharply. "Who is this guy, anyhow?"
A woman came forward through the shadows. West had a glimpse of her face, but the features were unfamiliar. A woman of forty, perhaps, still attractive in appearance, with dark hair and bold black eyes that met his own defiantly. He was puzzled, doubtful as to what it all meant. So this was the woman he had seen on board; not Natalie Coolidge at all. There had been a mistake of some kind; but if so, why had these people given him this sort of reception aboard? These thoughts swept his mind in a flash, as the woman peered forward to see his features more clearly. For a moment she said nothing, and Joe broke out impatiently.
"He's the lad, ain't he?" he asked. "We ain't gone an' picked up the wrong guy?"
"No; he's the bird all right. I never lamped him but once before myself. I heard his name then, but forgot it. He's her friend, there ain't no doubt o' that, Joe, and it ain't likely he's hanging around here just for fun, is it? My idea was it would be safer to take him in."
"Sure; what's yer name, young fellow?"
Concealment was useless; they evidently had him correctly spotted; to lie would do no good.
"Matthew West."
"That's the name," the woman exclaimed eagerly. "He is a soldier--a Captain, or something like that. Jim told me about him; he's the same fellow who was snooping about Mike's Place last night, before we pulled out."
"Is that so? How the hell did you get out of there?"
"We had a little trouble," West admitted, "but they let me go."
"Yes, they did! I know better than that; Hobart don't do business that way. I reckon we've played his game all right taking you in. Well, you don't get out of here so easy, let me tell you. How'd you come to get onto us?"
"That's my business."
"Oh, is it? Well, we'll make it ours from now on. There is one thing pretty sure--you were here playing a lone hand. So it don't make much difference what yer idea was. We'll take the bird along with us, Mary; then he'll be out of temptation."
The woman nodded.
"Jim will know what to do with him," she said. "All we got to do is keep him safe."
"I'll attend to that; come on, Mark, let's throw the damn sneak into that left-hand stateroom. He'll stay there all right. Aw, take hold; don't be afraid of hurting the fellow."
They roughed him forward, but West made no attempt to resist; his hands were bound, and he was helpless. The woman threw open the narrow door, and he was bundled unceremoniously across the threshold, and thrown heavily to the floor. He struggled partially upright, protesting against being left in that helpless condition, but the red-moustached man only laughed, shutting the door tightly, and locking it. The single port hole was covered by heavy drapery, the stateroom in total darkness. Through the door panels he could hear a voice speaking.
"He's better off that way until we get out of here. You stay here, Mary, till I can attend to him myself. Those fellows ought to have that engine fixed by this time. Mark and I better go up on deck awhile."
"But, Joe, do you think they have caught on to us?" she asked anxiously.
"No, I don't; this guy wouldn't be snooping about alone if they had. He ain't no fly cop, and just happened to be loafin' here--that's my guess. He knew this was the Coolidge Yacht, and that set him to asking questions. That guy don't look to me like he was the kind to be afraid of. All we got to do is hold him here until Jim decides what he's up to. I don't want to hurt him none, unless I have to. Everything else all right, I suppose?"
"Sure; quiet as a mouse; asleep, I guess."
"That's good; well you stay here until I come back. Want a gun?"
She did not answer so as to be heard, but West could distinguish the movement of feet in the outer cabin, and then the closing of a door. Undoubtedly the two men had gone on deck, leaving the woman there alone. His feet were not tied, and he could sit up, although the hands were tightly bound behind him. With eyes accustoming themselves to the gloom, he could discern something of his surroundings. He was in the ordinary stateroom of a small yacht, with barely space in which to move about comfortably. Two bunks were at one side, with a metal stand at their foot for washing purposes. A rug covered the floor, the beds were made, and a stool, screwed to the deck, occupied a position just below the porthole. A few hooks were in evidence on the opposite wall; but no garments dangled from them to tell of previous occupancy. Indeed the place was scrupulously clean, as though unused for some time.
West made his way to the port, pushed aside the curtain with his shoulders and looked out. The smallness of the opening made any hope of escape in that way impossible; nor could he expect to attract the attention of any one ashore. His view was limited to the east and north, a wide expanse of blue water, the only thing in sight being the pleasure boat bound for Lincoln Park, already little more than a black dot in the distance. Convinced of his complete helplessness, he sat down on the stool to consider the situation.
He had been a fool; there was no doubt as to that; the only thing now was how he could best retrieve his folly. He had walked blindly into a trap, suspecting nothing, confidently relying on his own smartness, believing himself unknown. Now he must find his way out. It angered him to realize how easily it had been accomplished; not so much as a blow struck; no opportunity even for him to cry out an alarm--only that dark cabin, and the threatening revolver shoved against his cheek. He wondered where McAdams was; perhaps hunting him even then on the pier; and Sexton, what had he succeeded in discovering out at Fairlawn? That Natalie Coolidge had returned home, no doubt. At least he no longer believed she was with this yachting party--evidently there was but one woman on board. Yet, whether she was there or not, it was clear enough from what he had heard that this sudden voyage of the
Seminole had some direct connection with the mystery he was endeavouring to solve. That was why he had been decoyed aboard, and made prisoner--to keep him silent; to get him securely out of the way. Yet this knowledge revealed nothing as to what their real purpose was.
What did they intend doing with him now that he was in their hands? Joe had declared his fate would be left with Hobart. Then it must be that they had a rendezvous arranged somewhere with that arch-conspirator, some hidden spot along the lake shore where they were to meet shortly, and divide the spoils, or make further plans. Hobart unquestionably was the leader of the gang; but who was the woman? She had evidently been in Mike's Place the night before, and had a glimpse of his face. She must have left with that party in the automobile, yet she surely was not the one who had dropped that note begging the police to search this vessel.
What then had become of the other? If she was being held prisoner, it was not at all probable she had been left somewhere ashore; apparently she had reason to know where she was being taken--to the
Seminole; otherwise she would never have written as she did. She must have overheard their plans, before she hastily scratched off the note desperately; and yet those plans might have been changed. However, if so, why were these people--accomplices of Hobart no doubt--fleeing in the yacht, seeking to conceal their identity in an effort to disappear? What were they fleeing from? Why were they so fearful of discovery by the police? What would cause them to kidnap him, merely on suspicion that he was a friend of Natalie Coolidge? The very act was proof positive of the desperation of their crime. It could be accounted for on no other theory.
West paced the narrow space, his brain whirling, as he attempted to reason the affair out, his own helplessness becoming more and more apparent. What could he do? There was but one answer--absolutely nothing as he was then situated. He could only wait for some movement on the part of the others; his fate was out of his own hands; he had been a fool, and must pay the price. The cords about his wrists chafed and hurt with each movement. The metal wash-stand gave him an inspiration; its upper strip was thin, and somewhat jagged along the edge; possibly it might be utilized to sever the strands. It was better to try the experiment than remain thus helplessly bound. With hands free he could at least defend himself.
He made the effort, doubtfully at first, but hope came as the sharp edge began to tear at the rope. It was slow work, awkward, requiring all the strength of his arms, yet he felt sure of progress. He could feel the strands yield little by little, and redoubled his efforts. It hurt, the rope lacerating his wrists, and occasionally the jagged steel cut into the flesh cruelly, but the thought of freedom outweighed the pain, and he persevered manfully. At last, exercising all his muscle, the last frayed strand snapped. His wrists were bleeding, and the hands numb, but the severed cord lay on the floor and he again had the free use of his arms. The sudden freedom brought new hope and courage. He listened at the door, testing the knob cautiously. There was no yielding, and for the moment no sound reached him from without. The woman was doubtless there on guard, and any effort he might make to break down the door would only bring the whole gang upon him. Unarmed, he could not hope to fight them all. As he stood there, hesitating, unable to determine what to attempt, he became aware of a throbbing under foot, increasing in intensity. West knew instantly what it meant--they were testing out the engine; if all worked well, the boat would cast off.
He sprang back to the port and stared out, eagerly hoping that, as they swept out into the lake, he might find some opportunity to communicate with some one on the pier. Perhaps by this time Mac would have arrived, and be watching their departure, unable to intervene, as he had no warrant for arrest, or any definite knowledge that the yacht was being used for a criminal purpose. He had not long to wait. Hurrying steps echoed along the deck; a voice shouted out some order, and the end of a loosened rope dropped splashing into the water astern; the boat trembled to the pulsations of the engine, and West realized that it was at first slowly, then more swiftly, slipping away into the broad water. Already he could perceive the white wake astern, and, an instant later, as the turn to the right widened, he had a glimpse of the pier, already separated from him by a broad expanse of trembling water. Above the noise his voice would scarcely reach that distance. A crowd of people stood there watching, clinging along the edge of the promenade--McAdams was not among them. It would be useless to strive to attract their attention; not one among them would comprehend; even if they did, not one of them could help. He still stood there, gazing back at the fast receding pier, gradually becoming blurred in the distance, but hopelessly. He knew now he must face his fate alone.