As he felt her go down, Tom turned to the yacht, and waved his hand. “Heave us a rope, Mr. Caruth,” he called. “I can’t swim!”
Caruth did not hesitate. He had read the plainsman’s purpose and had given orders accordingly. In less than a minute Tom Wilkins, dripping but unhurt, stood on the deck beside his brother Bill, while aft, in the water churned into foam by the screws of the yacht, a white sail fluttered for a moment; then was gone.
Caruth looked at the spot where the sloop had disappeared; then at the plainsman; then at the hurrying Russians. “That was a child’s trick, Wilkins,” he said severely. “The water isn’t fifty feet deep here, and Demidroff can fish the gold up easy. Meanwhile, you’ve put us all in a hole.”
“Not much I ain’t. Look!”
Caruth looked again. The yacht was drawing rapidly away, and the Russians were making no effort to follow her. Clustered around the spot where the sloop sank, they seemed to be throwing out buoys to mark the spot.
And the yacht swept westward.
Six months later, five of the chief participants in the contest for the Orkney’s gold were gathered at a home dinner given by the Caruths to mark their departure from the apartment in the Chimneystack Building to the splendid new house Caruth had bought for his bride. Until then, Marie had insisted on remaining in the rooms where she had first met her husband.
Inevitably, as always when these five met, the talk turned on the trip of the Sea Spume and those connected with the quest for the Orkney’s gold.
Caruth opened the subject. Said he: