Lang puffed his cigar, as if thinking about it. But he was not in any doubt. It was the most stupendous piece of luck, and Eva Morrison had been more than right when she urged him to accept this call.

Not that he believed half the story. He did not believe that any of this ship’s company had ever owned Rockett’s stock. They did not look like an investing class. Somehow they must have discovered Rockett’s hiding place, and were trying to “hijack” him; or they might have been Rockett’s own confederates, now turned against him. But however this might be, Lang was determined not to let Arthur Rockett out of his sight.

“It’s an interesting sort of case,” he said, with admirable detachment. “Yes, I’ll stay with you till he speaks—or dies.”

CHAPTER IV
WRECKED

So began Lang’s strangest professional experience. He got rid of his companions as soon as he could, returned to the hospital room, and studied the unconscious man with a doubled and most passionate interest. He could see no change in his condition; but he set himself to make a fresh and even more careful examination, recording temperature, blood pressure, pulse, reflex action on a sort of chart which he pinned to the wall for continual reference. When he had finished he pondered a long time, unable to make up his mind whether the state of coma was the result of some injury he had not discovered, or whether it was pure shock, neurasthenic paralysis, brought about by the strain of the “third degree.” Neither theory was quite justified by the symptoms, and Lang even considered the possibility that the unconsciousness was shammed, but this was incredible. To feign a week of complete paralysis would require a nerve control simply superhuman.

He went on deck afterward, still turning over the problem in his mind. He encountered Carroll, who took him up to the bridge, where Captain Harding kept a negligent watch, with a negro quartermaster at the wheel. Louie presently crept up the iron ladder also, looking silent and furtive as usual, and then Floyd came with a bottle of rum and a pitcher of fresh orange juice. It appeared that the bridge was the accustomed lounging place, for within half an hour the engineer off duty appeared also. He was a sallow man in grimy overalls, whom Lang had not previously seen. He stayed only a few minutes, however.

The rest drank their rum and chatted openly, since it was understood that Lang had thrown in his lot with them. They were all deeply disappointed that by some medical miracle Rockett could not be suddenly jerked back into consciousness. In fact, they still hoped for some such performance, and seemed to take it for granted that Rockett could be induced to part with the desired information as soon as his speech was restored. But Lang was doubtful. The face of the old wrecker was not that of a man easy to coerce.

“That bird’s got two hundred grand planted somewheres,” Louie muttered. “Leave me alone wit’ him, and I’ll make him talk.”

And suppose Rockett talked—suppose the plunderer recovered—what would become of Rockett then? Lang had already judged his shipmates to the point of believing that a dark night at sea and a man overboard might solve the difficulty.

And his own position, for that matter, might prove difficult, in spite of all the lavish promises of the gang, when the time came for Rockett to speak or die.