He had risen to his feet, and was uttering that peculiar nondescript cry with which mutes give vent to alarm or surprise.
They were now within twenty feet of the shore. The water was not more than four feet deep. Mr. Withers discerned a carriage on the shore, and two men standing close to the water’s edge.
“All ready!” he cried.
“All ready,” was responded.
Then he suddenly gave a twist to the tiller and a pull to the rope controlling the sail, and the yacht wheeled violently around. The following instant Luke Felton felt himself precipitated forward by a violent push, and in a second he was struggling in the water. But it was not deep enough to drown him, and one of the men quickly waded out and caught him by the collar.
Mr. Withers saw this, as his yacht glided swiftly seaward. Passing safely out of the cove, he guided the boat in good style around the point and into the open sea opposite Rocky Beach.
“Now, Mr. Luke Felton,” he soliloquized, “you think you are the victim of some conspiracy, and so you are, but you are in good hands, and will be well treated. If you have any education, well and good, but if you have not, you will be taught enough to enable you to communicate what you know about this nest of villains who make Rocky Beach a place for their secret iniquities.”
He made steadily for the shore, but on arriving at a point so near that the moonlight would enable Roake to discern the yacht, he began to feign the most gross ignorance of its management. He allowed it to be driven hither and thither with the sail flapping in the breeze, the tiller at times disregarded, and was apparently in imminent danger of being capsized.
Still he controlled it, although in a bungling manner, so that its general course was toward the shore.
As he drew near Roake ran up and down the beach, shouting, wildly: