The word of a rogue! There was now nothing to do but turn in. He believed he had a glimmer. Somewhere off the Catwick Cunningham and his crew were to be picked up. He would not be 146 going to the Catwick himself, not knowing whether it was jungle or bald rock. But if a ship was to pick him up, why hadn’t she made Shanghai and picked him up there? Why commit piracy—unless he was a colossal liar, which Dennison was ready enough to believe. The word of a rogue!
Some private war? Was Cunningham paying off an old grudge? But was any grudge worth this risk? The old boy wasn’t to be scared; Cunningham ought to have known that. If Cleigh came through with a whole skin he’d hunt the beggar down if it carried him to the North Pole. Cunningham ought to have known that, too. A planted crew, piracy—and he, Dennison Cleigh, was eventually to chuckle over it! He had his doubts. And where did the glass beads come in? Or had Cunningham spoken the truth—a lure? A big game somewhere in the offing. And the rogue was right! The world, dizzily stewing in a caldron of monumental mistakes, would give scant attention to an off-side play such as this promised to be. Not a handhold anywhere to the puzzle. The old boy might have the key, but Dennison Cleigh could not go to him for the solution.
His own father! Just as he had become used to the idea that the separation was final, absolute, to be thrown together in this fantastic manner! 147 The father’s arm under his neck and the cup at his lips had shaken him profoundly. But Cleigh would not have denied a dog drink had the dog exhibited signs of thirst. So nothing could be drawn from that.
Morning. Jane opened her eyes, only to shut them quickly. The white brilliancy of the cabin hurt. Across the ceiling ran a constant flicker of silver—reflected sunshine on the water. Southward—they were heading southward. She jumped out of bed and stepped over to the port. Flashing yellow water, a blue sky, and far off the oddly ribbed sails of a Chinese junk labouring heavily in the big sea that was still running. Glorious!
She dressed hurriedly and warmly, bundling her hair under a velours hat and ramming a pin through both.
“Denny?” she called.
There was no answer. He was on deck, probably.
An odd scene awaited her in the main salon. Cleigh, senior, stood before the phonograph listening to Caruso. The roll of the yacht in nowise disturbed the mechanism of the instrument. There was no sudden sluing of the needle, due to an amateurish device which Cleigh himself had constructed. The son, stooping, was searching the 148 titles of a row of new novels. The width of the salon stretched between the two.
“Good morning, everybody!”