"I don't know if we'll meet again, but it's possible," he said. "You offered a good reward for some information not long since. I wonder whether you were rash."
"The offer stands," Marston replied. "The man who tells me all about our agent's death will find me generous."
"Oh, well," said Peters. "I can't state that I expect to claim the reward, but after all I might. Then I hope we'll both be satisfied."
Marston let him go. He would have given much for ten minutes' frank talk with Wyndham, but this was impossible. The pilot was waiting and the yacht drifting near a dangerous shoal. He resigned himself and gave his comrade his hand.
"Run no risks and take care of yourself until I come back," he said.
"Good luck!" said Wyndham and jumped into the canoe.
Marston signed to the steersman, the sails filled, and the canoe dropped astern. Columbine gathered speed and listed down, throwing spray about while the water foamed below her lee rail. Small white waves rolled down the glittering track ahead and Marston's mood got lighter. After all, it was a relief to put to sea; the salt wind was tonic and blew morbid thoughts away. It was bracing to grapple with breaking waves and savage squalls.
He looked astern. The canoe had vanished and a misty line indicated the land. Marston was conscious of a strange repugnance as he watched it fade. Sickness lurked in the steamy forest, where the gloom was touched by mystery and something of horror. For a time, he had done with it, and he would come back strengthened and invigorated by the change.
He gave the helmsman the course, and going to the cabin, opened a tin box that held letters for England and manifests of cargo. He must copy these out on the bills of lading when he transshipped the goods and as he studied the lists he felt some surprise. Columbine did not carry much but her freight was valuable. Some had been put on board without his knowing and he thought it strange Wyndham had not talked about its cost. For example, there were small pearls. One found pearls at places on the Caribbean, but the fisheries were jealously guarded and none were near the lagoon. Then there was a packet of ambergris and Marston knew ambergris was worth much. Don Felix had said nothing about this curious stuff, which the cachalot whales throw up, and Marston wondered where Wyndham had got it.
The voyage was obviously going to pay, but the strange thing was, their cargo for the most part had come down after the agent died. To some extent this bore out Marston's conclusion that the old mulatto was the Bat and had power over Don Felix's uncivilized customers. Marston began to muse about the fellow. He had power; one felt it, although he was old and repulsive. Something indicated that he had inherited from his white ancestors qualities not often found in half-breeds. Marston began to see that this was partly why the fellow repelled him; one got a hint of intelligence put to a base use.