“I think so.” The Baron rose. “I have three months’ time,” he added. “Much may be done in three months.”
“Much indeed! Keep me advised.”
The Baron went out, but in ten minutes he was back with a paper in his hand.
“I found this on my desk,” he cried. “It came in half an hour ago. Read it.”
The message ran as follows:
New York.—Shishkin announces departure to dredge in Baltic for scientific purposes. Goes on yacht of Ashton Caruth. Takes daughter with him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE Sea Spume, with its curiously assorted passengers, sailed from New York on Saturday.
Besides Caruth, it carried Marie Fitzhugh, Professor Shishkin, his pretended daughter, Thomas Wilkins, and several bewhiskered individuals whose names ended in ski or vitch. They were the divers whom Miss Fitzhugh had selected and Professor Shishkin had brought along ostensibly to explore the bottom of the Baltic for proofs of his theory of rising sea-floors. Caruth felt sure that they were nihilists and suspected them of having bombs on their persons, but it was too late to balk at that.
The yacht was swift and the weather fine, and the miles fell behind with gratifying regularity. The sun shone bright by day, and the moon cast silvery gleams by night. In short, the astronomy of the trip was all that could be desired.