“The fact that Mr. Jenkins’ coat was cut and torn as if some one had ripped it up to obtain from it something of value or importance.”
“You mean that you think Mr. Jenkins was pushed down the flight of stairs and met his injury in that way?”
“That’s my theory, but I have nothing but the tear in the coat to base it on.”
The surgeon was interrupted at this point by the appearance at the top of the gangway of a singular-looking individual. He was tall, skinny as an ostrich and had a peculiar piercing expression of countenance. His rather swarthy features were obscured on the lower part of his face by a bristly black beard.
“Are these young men going to take Mr. Jenkins ashore?” he asked in a dictatorial sort of tone.
“That is our intention,” was Nat’s rejoinder.
“Where are you going to land him?”
The words were ripped out more like an order than a civil inquiry. Nat felt a vague resentment. Evidently the black-bearded man looked upon the Motor Rangers as boys who could be ordered about at will.
“We are going to run into Santa Barbara as fast as our boat will take us there,” was Nat’s reply.
“I want to go ashore with you,” declared the stranger. “I received word early to-day by wireless that makes it imperative that I should return to San Francisco at once. Land me at Santa Barbara and name your own price.”