The man's tone, and air of confidence was impressive; beyond doubt he felt that the cards were all in his hands. West drew in his breath sharply.

"Apparently you are right," he said quietly. "May I ask a question or two?"

"Fire away; I'll answer as I please."

"Who is the woman on board?"

"Mary, you mean? Hobart's wife."

"She came from the place on Wray Street last night in an auto?"

"Yes; I brought her along myself."

"Alone?"

"There were two of us, Mark and I--why? what are you driving at?"

"Just putting some broken threads together. Then Natalie Coolidge is not on this yacht?"

"I should say not. What would we be doing with her out here?"

"Where is she then?"

"Oh, I begin to see what brought you aboard so easily, West. You thought we had the lady kidnapped, and was sailing off with her. Some stunt that.

What put the idea in your head?"

West hesitated a moment, but decided a truthful answer would do no harm.

"I knew an automobile had driven out of the alley back of Mike's Place; and that a woman was in it. When I got away a little later, I picked up a message--a note which had been dropped. It was written in a woman's hand but unsigned--"

"The little cat! She dropped it?"

"It seems so. You forgot yourself that time. So she was with you, was she?"

"I don't know what you mean. I told you who were with me. Go on; what did the note say?"

"It was only a request for the police to search the _Seminole_ at once."

"Oh, that's the way the wind blows. But you preferred to tackle the job yourself. I am certainly obliged to you, West."

"You have no reason to be. I took that note to the police, and they are on the case. They are combing the city right now for Hobart, and if they get him, this bubble of yours is likely to be p.r.i.c.ked."

"h.e.l.l, they won't get him. There isn't a fly-cop in Chicago who could locate Jim in a week, and as for Natalie, believe me she is quite able to take care of herself."

"But where is she?"

"At home, of course, if you must know--'Fairlawn,' isn't that the name of the place? We left her there on our way to Jackson Park."

"Then the girl was with you?"

"Spilled the beans, didn't I? That comes from talking too much.

However, there is no harm done. Sure she left with us, but we dropped her out at Fairlawn. It was her machine we were riding in. Say, you've questioned me about enough, so let up. Listen now--you will stay in this stateroom until we get ready to let you out. Don't try any funny business either, for if you do, you are going to get hurt. There is a guard outside in the cabin, and we are not afraid to shoot out here on the lake. n.o.body knows where you are, West; so if you want to live, keep quiet--that's my advice."

He started back, one hand on the k.n.o.b of the door, but West stopped him.

"Do you mind telling me where we are bound?" he questioned.

Hogan smiled, but the smile was not altogether a pleasant one.

"You will have to wait, and find that out for yourself, Captain. My orders are not to talk."

"From Hobart?"

"Sure; Jim is engineering this deal, and whatever he says goes, for he's the guy who has his hands on the dough--see?"

He slipped out, closing and locking the door behind him. West, more thoroughly confused than ever over the situation in which he found himself, paced the brief length of the narrow stateroom, and then paused to stare moodily out of the port. His eyes rested on the same wide expanse of water, no longer brightened by the glow of the sun. A ma.s.s of clouds veiled the sky, while a floating bank of fog obscured the horizon, limiting the scope of his vision. Everything appeared grey and desolate, and the restless surge of waves were crested with foam. It was hard to judge just where the sun was, yet he had an impression the vessel had veered to the north, and was proceeding straight up the lake, already well out of sight from either sh.o.r.e.

He had learned little of the slightest value; merely that Natalie had been of the party leaving in the automobile the night before. She, undoubtedly, had been the one who had dropped the note. Then, in spite of all they said about her, in spite of what she had told him, she was actually a prisoner, desperately begging for a.s.sistance to escape. As to the other things Hogan had told him, the probability was they were mostly lies. West did not believe the girl had returned to 'Fairlawn,' the story did not sound natural. If she had written that note, these fellows would never trust her alone, where she could communicate with friends. They might venture to send her in to talk with him, knowing her every word was overheard, but surely they would never be reckless enough to leave her free to act as she pleased. That was unthinkable. Besides why should they have taken this yacht, and sailed it out secretly in the night unless she was hidden away aboard? The only conceivable object would be to thus keep her safely beyond sight and hearing. And that would be a reason why Hobart's wife should also be on board--to look after the girl. The longer he thought it all over, the more thoroughly was he convinced they were both prisoners on the same vessel. Yet what could he do? There was no answer forthcoming; no possibility of breaking forth from that room was apparent; he was unarmed, helpless. If he did succeed in breaking through the door, he would only encounter an armed guard, and pit himself against five or six men, criminals probably, who would count his death a small matter compared to their own safety. He sank down, with head in his hands, totally unnerved--it was his fate to attempt nothing; only to wait on fortune.

Mark brought in food, merely opening the door slightly, and sliding the tray in on the floor. No words were exchanged, nor was the tray removed until just at twilight, when the fellow appeared again on a similar mission. It became dark, but no light was furnished. Outside the clouds had thickened, and a heavy swell was tossing the vessel about rather roughly. Seemingly the engine was merely endeavouring to maintain head-way, with no port in immediate prospect; they were steering aimlessly into the promise of a stormy night. No sound reached him from the cabin, and finally, worn out mentally and physically, West flung himself on the lower bunk, and lay there motionless, staring up into the intense darkness.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE SINKING YACHT

Lying there motionless, yet wide awake, his senses alert, every slightest sound and movement made clearer the situation. He could feel the laboured efforts of the vessel, the slap of waves against the side, the rush of water astern. Occasionally the echo of a voice reached him from the deck above, and once footsteps were audible almost over his head. The engine strokes were regular, but slow, the vibrations shaking the boat in its st.u.r.dy battling against the forces of the sea. The _Seminole_ rolled heavily, yet there was nothing at all alarming in her actions, and West felt no premonition of illness, or fear as to the sea-worthiness of the little craft. Whoever was handling her was evidently a seaman, quite capable of conquering a storm of this magnitude. No noise came to him from the cabin, yet he had no thought it could be deserted. Hogan would certainly retain a guard there, and probably others--with no duties of seamanship weighing on them--would seek refuge there from the wind-swept deck above. No doubt the fellows had a skipper, as neither Hogan, nor the man Mark, bore any resemblance to a lake sailor. Quite possibly the entire crew were innocent of what was actually transpiring aboard, and equally indifferent, so long as their wages were satisfactory. Yet it was even more probable that they had been selected for this special service because of lack of ordinary scruples; men who would never question so long as the pay was adequate for the danger involved. It seemed to West the wind and sea were slowly decreasing in violence; there was less noise and turmoil. The movement of the vessel began to lull him into forgetfulness, his vigilance relapsed, his mind drifting in thought. He endeavoured to arouse himself, to keep awake, but finally fatigue conquered, and he sank into a deep sleep. He had no knowledge of how long this slumber lasted, or what suddenly awakened him, so startled at the moment that he sat up in the berth, staring into the blackness. Was it a dream, or a reality? Had some one spoken? He could neither see nor hear anything; the boat seemed to be motionless, not even throbbing now to the beat of the engine--the silence was uncanny. It seemed to him his own heart had stopped, so still it was, and he felt a cold perspiration break out on his flesh. Something was wrong, must be wrong. Where were they--at anchor in some harbour? or helplessly adrift on the lake? The sea must have gone down; waves no longer dashed against the side, and there was no shriek of wind overhead; the yacht rocked gently, as though the swell of the sea no longer buffeted her; there was no sound of action on the deck above. Then he heard a voice again, outside, reaching him this time plainly through the open port.

"All set, Mapes," it said sharply. "Come on down. You finished the job?"

"Ay, ay, sir," the answer gruff, but with a tinge of excitement in the tone. "She's fixed all right. Hold hard, now, mate."

West, thoroughly aroused, realizing instantly the importance of this new move, and as quickly suspecting its purpose, leaped to the port-hole, and, endeavoured to gain a glimpse without. The night was still intensely black, the sky overcast and starless, the only glimmer of light the reflecting of foam tipped surges. If land was near it remained invisible, nor could he even be sure of the close proximity of a boat. There seemed to be a smudge there at the left, a black, lumping shadow, shapeless against the background of sea; yet he could not be sure. Even as he gazed at it doubtfully, the dim object disappeared, fading away like a mirage. No sound reached him to cause the vision to seem real--no voice, no creak of oars, no flap of a sail; yet something told him that mysterious shadow was a boat, a boat filled with men, creeping away silently into the night, fleeing from the yacht, and vanishing into the darkness.

My G.o.d, what could such action mean? Why were these fellows deserting the _Seminole_, leaving him helpless aboard, locked into that stateroom? Was the yacht disabled? sinking? and had they merely forgotten him in their own eagerness to escape? Were they in mid-lake? or close to some point of land? Had every one gone, leaving the vessel totally abandoned, a wreck buffeted by the surges, doomed to go down, unseen, its final fate unknown? Unknown! The word rising to his brain was the answer. There was the crest of the plot. What could be easier, or safer, than this ending?

Who would ever know the truth? Who could ever prove anything, even if they suspected? And who was there to suspect?

No one had reason to believe he was aboard the _Seminole_; not even McAdams. If it was to their interest to get him permanently out of the way--if Hobart had so decided--what simpler method could be found than the sinking of the yacht? The very crew might be innocent of the purpose, dupes of the conspiracy; they might even be unaware of his presence aboard, and deceived by Hogan into the belief that the vessel had opened a seam, and must sink shortly, would take to the boat without suspecting any one was left behind. They could so testify in all honesty if any question ever arose. The very simplicity of the scheme meant safety; yet the possibility of such cold blooded murder had never before occurred to him. Unknown! without a trace left; only a boat crew landing somewhere on the coast at dawn, and scattering to the four winds. It was a plot infernal.

West stopped, his hands clinched, his heart seeming to stop its pulsing.

But if Natalie Coolidge was also prisoner on board, what of her? Wasn't that the very thing most probable? Of course it was; how foolish he had been. These men, recklessly criminal, as they were, would never sacrifice the yacht, and risk their own lives, merely to put him out of the way. He was not important enough for that; he was but an incident. It was an accident which had made him a prisoner. While this was--must be--a carefully arranged plan. The girl then must be the real victim; his own plight arose merely because he chanced to be there, and the villains dare not leave him alive to tell the story.

The certainty of this acted like an electric shock. He had not felt seriously alarmed before as to his own fate. He had only been conscious of a deep anger, a mad determination to make Hogan pay. If the _Seminole_ was sinking, and beyond doubt this was the intention of those deserters, it was going down slowly, so slowly there would be ample time for escape.

He was not asleep, but wide awake, and far from paralyzed by the danger.

He was not the sort to give up while there was any hope left. Surely the guard in the cabin would have departed with the others, leaving him free to act. He could smash his way out through that door, and find something on deck to construct a raft from. This was Lake Michigan, not the ocean, and not many hours would pa.s.s before he was picked up. Vessels were constantly pa.s.sing, and daylight would bring rescue.