And why had that man possessed nothing except this phonograph and six grand-opera records? Dennis wanted to try out those records. He strongly hoped that the labels might be a blind—that the records might have some information to convey. Did those records hold the secret, then?
Dennis wound up the machine, inserted a needle in the slot, and set one of the records upon the turntable. To his complete and utter stupefaction he found that upon the record was not a word; merely a deep bass voice repeating the alphabet over and over in a slow and distinct sequence! After each letter "zed", followed the numerals from one to naught.
One after another, Dennis tried each of the six records, patiently listening to that maddening repetition of that alphabet. There was positively nothing else on them!
At length he glanced at his watch, found that it was nearly ten o'clock, or four bells. With no little disdain and disappointment, he bundled the phonograph and records back into the depths of his suitcase, and was just locking the grip when Florence entered the cabin.
"Are you ready, dear?" she demanded eagerly, a spot of colour in her pale cheeks. "They're all waiting for us there in the cabin—and, Tom! It's a company! The Hathaway Salvage Company!"
"And what does that mean?" asked Dennis smiling as he kissed her.
"They're going to tell us. Are you better, dear?"
"Oh, I'm all right—able to walk, anyhow. Forward, and solve the mystery!"
Together they left their cabin and went aft.
In company with Miles Hathaway and the tall scarlet geranium in the green-striped jar, they found five people sitting around the table. At the head was Captain Pontifex, at the foot the Missus. On one side sat Mr. Leman, pawing his fringe of whiskers. At the other sat Ericksen, a satanic twist to his freckled mouth as he eyed Captain Hathaway, and at his side the black boat-steerer, Corny.