"The old fellow Don Felix imagined was the Bat turned up again."

"Ah," said Wyndham, who looked interested. "Don Felix hadn't seen him; we don't know he is the Bat."

"Father Sebastian agreed that he was, and I haven't much doubt. He said the man was evil and I think evil's the proper word. He gives me a strange nervous shrinking. Have you felt a kind of nausea when you looked at something repulsive? Well, I feel like that when he's about."

"As a rule, you don't let your imagination carry you away," Wyndham remarked. "I expect the heat and the dismal surroundings account for much."

"Anyhow, I gave him a dash and ordered him off the boat."

Wyndham glanced up rather sharply. "Why? We have got some valuable goods, and although we'll have to pay their owners, it looks as if the old fellow was useful."

"I don't want any goods he sends," Marston rejoined. "My notion is they're better left alone. Then I'm a partner, and although I haven't meddled much, I felt I ought to use my power."

"Oh, well," said Wyndham. "You are a partner, I suppose we must let it go."

They talked about something else and next evening Marston took the schooner's dinghy and rowed down the lagoon. He had heard curlew whistle in the dark and wondered whether the birds were as wild as they are in England. For a time he followed the edge of the mangroves, where water dripped from the arched roots, and amphibious things splashed in the muddy caves; and then skirted a sloppy bank the tide flowed across. Now and then he saw a curlew but did not get a shot, and by and by he put down the oars. The damp heat was enervating and he rested and looked about.

It would soon be dark and the mangroves cut in a straight black line against a fading orange glow. The land-breeze began to shake the leaves and now and then a pale branch moved. All was very quiet but for the dull rumble of the surf outside. Marston felt languid and vaguely disturbed. There was something about Wyndham that puzzled him. When they were at sea he did not want a better friend, but it was different when they went ash.o.r.e to trade. Well, he had come to look after Harry and now understood better why Mabel had let him go. Perhaps Harry really needed to be looked after. Marston was staunch, but he knew Mabel had not altogether trusted his comrade.

There was another thing; he must soon sail the schooner to the next port and he wanted to go, but Harry meant to stay. Marston did not like this, although he could think of no logical objection. The mulatto's visits bothered him. The fellow had asked for Wyndham and somehow Marston would sooner they did not meet. Perhaps the thing was ridiculous, but he felt like that.

It got dark and although there was no obvious reason for his return he felt he ought to get back to the yacht. Recently he had felt highly strung. This was, no doubt, the consequence of pottering about the unhealthy swamps, but he must control his illogical impulses and he lighted his pipe while he let the dinghy drift with the tide.

She floated quietly up the lagoon and presently he saw _Columbine_'s lights in the mist. Pulling a few languid strokes, he let the boat drift again until the vessel's dark side was close ahead. Then he put out his hand and seized a rope. He wore rubber boots, because he had thought he might wade across the mud, and made no noise when he stepped down from the rail. There was n.o.body on deck, but a light shone in the cabin and when he went aft he heard voices. The skylight was open and one of the voices was the old mulatto's.

Marston stopped abruptly. He wanted to go down and turn out the fellow, but doubted if he would be justified, although he was Wyndham's partner.

Somehow it was unthinkable the brute and his comrade should engage in quiet talk. For all that, he did not go, and turning back a few yards stopped again. He must not be a fool, and no doubt the fellow had come to talk about some goods his friends in the bush could supply. Marston did not want the goods, but forced himself to wait.

By and by a shadowy figure came out from the cabin hatch. It made no noise and Marston would not have seen it had not the indistinct black object for a moment cut against the light. Outside the beam from the open hatch all was misty and dark. Still Marston thought the fellow knew he was there, because he vanished as if he had gone behind the mast.

Marston did not bother about him and went down to the cabin.

There was liquor on the table and Wyndham had obviously just drained the gla.s.s he held. His hand shook as he put it down, his face was rather white, and drops of sweat stood on his forehead. It looked as if he had got a knock, although Marston knew Harry's nerve was good.

"I couldn't get near the curlew, so I came back," he remarked, awkwardly.

Wyndham looked up, with an obvious effort for calm. "Oh, well, since you are here, you might turn out the boys and heave up the slack cable."

Marston noted that Wyndham's voice was hoa.r.s.e, but thought it better to conquer his curiosity. Harry might give him his confidence later, and in the meantime to heave the cable taut would obviate their bringing the boys up again. The tide was rising and they wanted to float the schooner off the mud. He went forward to call the crew and the clank of the windla.s.s and rattle of chain were soothing, since they indicated that _Columbine_ was ready for sea. Marston owned that he would be glad to get away from the lagoon. He was occupied for some time and when he went back to the cabin Wyndham looked calm.

"We'll keep her off the beach after this," he said. "Sorry you didn't get a shot. The curlew seem as wild as they are at home."

"I don't want her to take the beach again," Marston remarked. "When do we sail?"

"You'll sail as soon as the pilot thinks there's water enough on the bar. He comes to-morrow."

"But you mean to stay?"

"I must stay," said Wyndham. "We haven't an agent and I'm on the track of some business I can't neglect."

Marston saw there was no use in urging his comrade to go. Harry's mouth was ominously firm. He wondered whether Harry would tell him what the mulatto had talked about, but he did not and soon after supper they went to bed.

CHAPTER XI

MARSTON GOES TO SEA

The new moon shone in a clear sky and the tide was nearly full. Puffs of warm land-breeze shook the mangroves and drove small ripples against _Columbine_'s side. She rode to the flood stream, ready for sea, and the clank of her windla.s.s rolled across the swamps. The negro crew were shortening cable and sang as they hove at the levers.

Wyndham was talking to Peters, who had arrived in the afternoon, and Marston, standing near them, frowned. He was annoyed that Peters had come, because he had wanted to talk to Wyndham and after the other's arrival this was impossible. It was unlucky he had put it off, but he did not see why Harry had urged the fellow to stay and go back to the village with him when the schooner sailed. Marston felt rather hurt, since it almost looked as if Harry had kept Peters in order to prevent him trying to satisfy his curiosity.

Marston was curious. The old mulatto had told Harry something that had given him a bad jar; Bob could not forget his comrade's strained look when he entered the cabin, and he had found no clew to the puzzle. It was a relief to go to sea, but the satisfaction he had expected to get was dulled. He felt as if he were running away and leaving his partner when the latter needed him. Yet somebody must go and Harry would not.

"Short up, sah!" a Krooboy shouted when the windla.s.s stopped. The pilot gave an order, and the foresail began to rise with a rattle of blocks.

The canvas flapped and swelled, and Marston went forward.

"Break out the anchor," he said. "Hoist the inner jib."

Dark figures rose and fell with the windla.s.s-bars; slowly at first, then faster, as with a harsh clank the chain ran through the pipe. Marston had generally found the noise inspiriting. It hinted at adventure on the open sea, but it did not move him now; he was not leaving the lagoon for good. Yet he was soothed when _Columbine_ began to move. After lying on the mud, he liked to feel her lift as she met the gentle swell the tide brought in, and hear the ripple splash about her bows. The mangroves stole past, a gap opened in the trees, and a faintly-glittering track led out to sea.

"Hoist the mainsail," said the pilot, and the splash of ripples was louder when the dark canvas rose.

She drove out with the land-breeze and met the rollers on the bar. They were not high and hardly broke, only one here and there melting into foam. She lurched across with dry decks, and when the leadsman got deeper water the pilot brought her round and pulled up his canoe.

Marston went to the gangway with Wyndham and Peters, and the latter laughed as he gave him his hand.

"I don't know if we'll meet again, but it's possible," he said. "You offered a good reward for some information not long since. I wonder whether you were rash."

"The offer stands," Marston replied. "The man who tells me all about our agent's death will find me generous."

"Oh, well," said Peters. "I can't state that I expect to claim the reward, but after all I might. Then I hope we'll both be satisfied."

Marston let him go. He would have given much for ten minutes' frank talk with Wyndham, but this was impossible. The pilot was waiting and the yacht drifting near a dangerous shoal. He resigned himself and gave his comrade his hand.

"Run no risks and take care of yourself until I come back," he said.

"Good luck!" said Wyndham and jumped into the canoe.

Marston signed to the steersman, the sails filled, and the canoe dropped astern. _Columbine_ gathered speed and listed down, throwing spray about while the water foamed below her lee rail. Small white waves rolled down the glittering track ahead and Marston's mood got lighter. After all, it was a relief to put to sea; the salt wind was tonic and blew morbid thoughts away. It was bracing to grapple with breaking waves and savage squalls.

He looked astern. The canoe had vanished and a misty line indicated the land. Marston was conscious of a strange repugnance as he watched it fade. Sickness lurked in the steamy forest, where the gloom was touched by mystery and something of horror. For a time, he had done with it, and he would come back strengthened and invigorated by the change.

He gave the helmsman the course, and going to the cabin, opened a tin box that held letters for England and manifests of cargo. He must copy these out on the bills of lading when he transshipped the goods and as he studied the lists he felt some surprise. _Columbine_ did not carry much but her freight was valuable. Some had been put on board without his knowing and he thought it strange Wyndham had not talked about its cost. For example, there were small pearls. One found pearls at places on the Caribbean, but the fisheries were jealously guarded and none were near the lagoon. Then there was a packet of ambergris and Marston knew ambergris was worth much. Don Felix had said nothing about this curious stuff, which the cachalot whales throw up, and Marston wondered where Wyndham had got it.

The voyage was obviously going to pay, but the strange thing was, their cargo for the most part had come down after the agent died. To some extent this bore out Marston's conclusion that the old mulatto was the Bat and had power over Don Felix's uncivilized customers. Marston began to muse about the fellow. He had power; one felt it, although he was old and repulsive. Something indicated that he had inherited from his white ancestors qualities not often found in half-breeds. Marston began to see that this was partly why the fellow repelled him; one got a hint of intelligence put to a base use.

The matter was not important, and he pondered about his finding Wyndham and the other in the cabin. Harry was badly shaken, although Marston knew his pluck. Something very strange and startling was needed to drive the blood from his face and bring the sweat to his forehead. All the same, it was ridiculous to imagine the mulatto had frightened him. The old fellow was clever and no doubt claimed to be a magician in the bush, but Harry was not the man to be cheated by his tricks. After a time, Marston gave it up and went on deck.