He was turning with this intention when, from the shoreward end of the pier, three dark figures stepped out of the shadows.
“Ah, Mr. Armstrong,” greeted the inventor, recognizing one of them; “here you are, I see. I was getting quite nervous. A lonely place this. Is the chief of police here with you? I—Jasper Ferriss!”
“Yes, Jasper Ferriss,” responded one of the figures, whose faces had hitherto been too much in the shadow to be recognizable. “I want to talk with you, Lockyer.”
“I have nothing to say to you, sir,” rejoined the inventor. “If this whole thing was a trick to get me to meet you, we may as well end the interview now.”
He turned on his heel and faced the boatman, who had been standing behind him.
“Row me back to the Lockyer at once,” he ordered indignantly.
“Not till I gets my orders,” grinned the boatman insolently. “I’ve got a few scores to settle with you, Channing Lockyer, on my own account.”
The voice was no longer disguised now, and Lockyer, after an instant’s struggle with his recollection, recalled where he heard it before.
“Why you—you are Gradbarr!” he exclaimed.
“That’s me,” rejoined the other, “and now I might as well get this hair mattress off my face. It’s half smothering me.”