What should he do? What should he do?
What could he do? In what quarter of the sea should he seek for the fleeing yacht?
Suddenly the operator began to write again. “Somebody’s breaking in,” he explained. “Not the Southern Cross; somebody else.” His fingers raced over the paper.
“Heard you talking,” ran the message. “This is the yacht Windbird. Ouro Preto just came aboard bringing Miss Byrd with him. We are due south of Southern Cross, going east. Will try to keep you advised. Can’t say much, or I may excite suspicion. Follow.—Rutile.”
CHAPTER XXV
When Rutile ran down to Hamburg to see what he could learn about the gun-running expeditions that Lillian Byrd had warned him were leaving that port he had nothing in mind beyond making a few inquiries which, if it seemed best, he might tip off to the Brazilian government. Circumstances, however, played into his hands and led him into a far more extensive adventure than he had foreseen.
In early life Rutile had intended to be a sailor. He had been appointed a cadet at the naval academy at Annapolis and had gone through the full four years course there and the requisite two succeeding years of sea service. If Uncle Sam had been willing he would have remained in the navy. But in those days Uncle Sam had no navy worth speaking about, and every year he deliberately turned adrift about two-thirds of the gallant young fellows whom he had been training for six years. Only about a score of each class graduated received commissions. Rutile was one of those dropped with a year’s pay.
Balked in following his chosen profession the young fellow had gone in for diplomacy. But he had never lost his fondness for the sea, and being blessed (or cursed) with abundance of money, had continued to keep in touch with sea life and to spend a month or more afloat every year. His father had been German born and he himself had been familiar with the language from childhood. He was thus qualified for the task he had set himself.
Arrived at Hamburg his first move was to take lodgings in a cheap quarter of the town and there to slip into such clothes as a petty ship’s officer would be likely to wear. These donned, he went out and wandered along the water front, chatting with sailors and pretending to be on the lookout for a berth as wireless operator, a calling that he had chosen chiefly because he was very certain that no ship’s captain was likely to put his good faith to the test by offering him a job. Incidentally he kept his ears open for news of the filibusters.
To a certain extent his task proved surprisingly simple. A few drinks and a few hours loafing told him that Miss Byrd’s suspicions were well-founded. The munitions of war supplied to the rebels in Southern Brazil had been shipped from Hamburg, practically without concealment, a few months before. He learned, moreover, that three or four ships supposed to be similarly laden had recently sailed for South American ports; “and yonder,” continued his informant, pointing with the stem of his pipe; “yonder lies the flagship. They say she’ll be sailing soon.”