“Go on,” said Tommie.
George, who had recovered his wits sooner than the others, had seized on an idea. Maybe it was Tommie’s face that inspired it.
“The whole of this business is a most awful mix-up,” he began. “First I’d better tell you who we are. My name’s Du Cane. George Harley du Cane. This is Mr. Hank Fisher, and this is Mr. Candon. I don’t know if you have read in the papers of a yacht putting out from San Francisco to catch Vanderdecken, the man who has been raiding yachts?”
“Yes,” said Tommie, “I know about it.”
“Well, this is the yacht. We got along down to San Nicolas and going ashore we saw a Chinese camp. We spotted you through a glass and came to the conclusion you were in the hands of Chinese white slavers. We made up our minds to rescue you.”
“Good Lord!” said Tommie, sitting forward in her chair with wide pupils.
“And seems to me we did it,” said George. “Can you imagine anything more horrible?”
Tommie’s mouth was open, relaxed, yet in a way rigid. She seemed in the grip of petrified laughter.
“Not only that,” went on George, “but we knocked the mast out of that junk. She chased us and we rammed her. What was she? Part of your show?”
Tommie’s mouth had suddenly closed itself, laughter had vanished and her eyes shone.