Softly Bill sculled along at the side of the yacht. Over the portholes curtains were drawn, so he could see nothing of what was going on inside. The moon was hidden behind clouds, and it was now so dark that he nearly ran into a tiny wooden landing stage. As he paused with the dinghy close under the narrow steps, he could hear the clink of dishes, as if a late meal was being prepared; and a skylight nearby threw the sound of excited conversation out on to the deck.
Each moment Bill kept reminding himself that he ought to be getting back. What if the owner of the dinghy were to appear and send angry halloos across the water? Still, having got so far, to retire without finding out what Johnson was up to seemed stupid. He made up his mind he would take a quick survey of the deck before moving off. He slung the rope around the bottom rung of the ladder, and cautiously felt his way upward.
The deck was empty so far as he could make out. If a hand was supposed to be on watch, Bill could not hear or see any signs of him. The large skylight came into view on deck, and the shimmer of its thick glass indicated that the saloon below was lighted up.
Bill crouched at the rail, listening. The snatches of animated talk he had heard from the water must have come from this saloon, for he could see that one of the skylight windows was raised a couple of inches. Now he could distinguish through the opening the clear tones of two voices in particular.
With the utmost caution, Bill crawled a couple of yards forward and looked down into the saloon. There was a white damask-covered table, with shaded lights, at which sat two men, busy with supper and conversation. He recognized the men at once.
Slim Johnson’s languid gestures emphasized his words, as he directed them, between sips of coffee, to no less a person than Zenas Sanders himself.
With a gasp, Bill realized that Sanders had come by plane, and that this yacht must be the leader’s present headquarters. To go back now was out of the question. He might be on the brink of a vital discovery. He glanced up and down the deck. Still it was deserted. Pulling himself close to the skylight, he lay listening, with every muscle taut.
Slim Johnson was speaking, and at first Bill could not pick up the trend of his remarks. But when Sanders replied, he realized their talk had been bearing on himself and the interview at Gring’s Hotel.
“You’re right, Slim,” said Sanders. “Young Bolton has practically broken with Evans. All he cares about now is getting the kid back. He said so over the phone.”
“Well, that darned Indian is sure to find your hideaway, Sanders. He’s got plenty of guts and so has that Parker fellow by all reports. Between them, they’ll get the boy before this yacht has a chance to reach Twin Heads Harbor.”