The man in the boat did not give him much time to think, however. He told his men to row up to the ladder and make fast.
They hardly had had time to obey, when he stepped out of the boat, and with one hand touching the hand rope lightly, as if he did not need its help, mounted to the deck.
His eyes seemed to take in everything at a glance, including the crew and captain. He touched Lawton on the elbow in a peremptory way.
“Take me to your cabin. I want a word with you,” he snapped. “There is my card.”
He thrust the card into Lawton’s hand, and pointed, with an offhand gesture, to the companionway. The captain read the words on the card with anything but a comfortable feeling. They were:
“Detective Lieutenant Sawyer, New York City.”
That was all, but it was more than enough for the skipper of the Cherokee. He did not know that he ever had seen a detective’s card before, but he supposed this was the regular formula.
Only a few moments previously, Captain Lawton had been anxious to get to the police, to complain about the loss of his six hundred dollars. Now that there was a detective at his elbow—probably a good one—he felt nervous. His own record was not clean, and he feared that this stern-mannered Sawyer might know more than would be healthful for him.
When they reached the cabin, the detective shrugged his shoulders as he glanced about him.
“Lost anything?” he snapped. “Looks as if you’d been making a search down here.”