Wyndham started for the village next day, and when it was getting dark Marston lounged on deck looking out for the boat. Some of the crew had gone with Wyndham, the rest were in the forecastle, and except for the cook at the galley door Marston had the deck to himself. The yacht was slowly lifting with the tide, which spread across the mud banks in the lagoon. Thin mist drifted about the mangroves and there was not a breath of wind. The water glimmered with faint reflections but in a few minutes it would be dark.
Presently Marston, looking over the rail, imagined there was somebody behind him on the deck. For a moment or two, however, he did not turn. He had heard no step and had recently felt himself highly strung. It looked as if Don Felix's death had given him a jar, but he was not going to indulge his shaken nerves. Still he felt there was somebody about and he slowly and deliberately looked round. The mulatto who had visited him before squatted on the deck, as if he had been there some time. Marston thought he saw amusement in his wrinkled face and his anger arose.
"Cappy Wyndham lib for on board?" the old fellow asked.
"He is not on board," said Marston roughly. "What do you want?"
"You done get them cargo?"
"We did. I don't know if you had much to do with it, but I suppose you expect your dash. What would you like? Money?"
The other shook his head. "Money no good. My friend sick too much. You dash me some medicine."
Marston remembered the packet of drugs and found it needful to use some control. He did not know if the mulatto was the Bat or not, but on the whole thought he was and the horror of his watch at Don Felix's house was fresh. Yet he had nothing to go upon and would not be justified in throwing the fellow overboard. The other watched him with bloodshot eyes, and although his face was inscrutable, Marston began to feel uneasy. He wondered whether the fellow was something of a hypnotist, for he got a hint of force; force that he thought malevolent. Looking forward along the deck, he imagined he saw the cook at the galley door, but the indistinct figure vanished and Marston felt it was significant that the negro had gone inside. Then he braced himself and looked back.
"I will not give you medicine, but since we did get the cargo, perhaps you deserve something," he said. "Wait a minute."
Going to the cabin, he opened a locker in which they had put a quantity of African trade goods. The stuff was rubbish, made to please the negro's eye; brass, jewelry, cheap scent, colored flannel jackets, and frail umbrellas. Marston picked up as much as he could carry and was conscious of rather dry amusement as he climbed the ladder. His visitor had obviously learned English in West Africa and he was going to give him the usual African dash, but he knew the old fellow had no use for the stuff. It was like giving a philosopher a child's toy.