He had completely fooled Captain Bill Lawton, and Paul Clayton had not the least suspicion that he was anything but what he pretended to be.
“You will remain in this cabin a prisoner for the present,” he said shortly, turning to Clayton. “I shall have to go ashore and telegraph to New York for instructions. Ah, here’s Captain Lawton!”
The skipper was coming down the companionway. He raised his eyebrows as he saw that Paul Clayton was standing at the stateroom door, with handcuffs on his wrists.
“Nabbed him, eh?” he growled.
“I have him under arrest,” replied Rayne, with dignity. “If you will bring a couple of your men to guard the prisoner, I will stay till you come back.”
“All right! I’ll get my bos’n, Clegg, and another man,” replied the captain. “Clegg is the sort of fellow who won’t take any funny business from anybody. With him and another, your prisoner will be as safe as if he was in jail ashore.”
The captain hurried away to get Clegg—who, in the absence of Joe Sykes, was acting as bos’n. He was glad to do anything he could to help the officer from New York.
John Garrison Rayne watched the captain till he disappeared up the stairway. Then he stooped and picked up the revolver Clayton had dropped, putting it into his pocket.
The young man had fallen into a chair at the big table in the middle of the saloon, and was sitting there, his head resting upon his arms, the picture of despair.
The Apache strode deliberately into the stateroom—for he was afraid to hurry or show any eagerness, lest he should be suspected—and picked up the suit case.