“Ask him whether Miss Lillian Byrd is on board?” he said.
Promptly came an affirmative answer.
“Please tell her that Commander Topham of the Navy will be alongside in about half an hour to take her ashore, and ask her to be ready for transfer. Tell the captain that Mr. Topham apologizes for the trouble he is giving, but that the matter is imperative.”
The operator tapped off the message. “The operator has gone to deliver them, sir,” he explained. “He’ll call again in a few minutes.”
But more than a few minutes chased themselves across the clock’s face before the Southern Cross again made herself heard. In fact, the “Light! Ho!” of the lookout at the bow of the Watson was sounding before her call came again.
For an instant the operator listened; then he snatched up his pencil and began to write. Topham, looking over his shoulder, read the words.
“Miss Byrd cannot be found. Was on board at nine o’clock. Count of Ouro Preto, another passenger, has also vanished. No trace of either found.”
“Good God! Ask him if they have no idea what has become of them!”
Again the operator wrote: “No trace of either can be found, but we suspect Ouro Preto carried girl off. His yacht has been following us all the way from Barbadoes. He sent a code wireless to it last night. Saw her lights very close behind us an hour ago.”
In silent consternation Topham read the message. It confirmed his instant guess as to what had happened. To keep his secret Ouro Preto had snatched the girl from under the President’s very fingers. Just how he had managed it was not of import, except as concerned the welfare of the girl herself; and Topham was very sure by now that more important things were at stake than the fate even of Lillian Byrd.