“Well, keep her on her course until eight bells. Then if he insists we’ll run in and land him on the beach somewhere.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“It will soon be over now. He can’t get in until to-morrow and then”—Crabb beamed with satisfaction—“and then it’ll be too late. Stow your smile, Jepson. He’s coming back.”
Not even this complete chain of circumstantial evidence could long avail against the brisk air and sunlight. In the broad expanse between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand Geltman noted the blue of some youthful tattooing. As he saw the familiar letters doubt took flight. He was himself. There was no doubt of that. As he went aft again he smiled triumphantly.
“Let’s be done with nonsense, Dr. Woolf,” he growled. “Look at that,” holding his hand before Crabb’s eyes. “If I’m Otto Fehrenbach how is it that the letters C. G. are marked in my hand?”
Crabb, his arms akimbo, stood looking him steadily in the eyes.
“So,” he said calmly, “you’re awake at last!”
He looked at Crabb and the Captain with eyes which saw not. What he had thought of saying and doing remained unsaid and undone. With no other word he lurched heavily forward and down the companion.
“There’ll be a hurricane in that quarter, Jepson, or I’m not weather wise,” laughed Crabb. “We’d better run in now. There isn’t much sea and the wind is offshore. We’ll land him at Quogue or Westhampton. In the meanwhile, keep the tarpaulin over the for’ard boat so that he can’t see the name on her. We’ll use the gig. If he tries to peep over the stern we’ll clap him in the stateroom. It will mean five years at least for me if he learns the name of the Blue Wing. So look sharp, Jepson, and keep an eye on him.”
“Never fear,” said the Captain with a grin, and walked forward.