“But how will I know where to go next?” cried the troubled Teresa. “I am sure we shall find them there. Good gracious, Captain Truscoe, don’t you suggest such things to me.”
By way of diverting her, he brought out photographs of his wife and three young daughters in San Francisco. His comments were terse.
“Nice woman. Thrifty. She saves my money. Good kids. I meant to go home, but Jerry grabbed me. You ought to get married and settle down, Miss Fernandez. Best thing for a pretty young woman.”
Teresa blushed at this and turned the topic. There were long hours when she was solitary, and somber moods oppressed her. The sense of fear and uncertainty was like a crushing weight. Jealously guarded was the secret of the real purpose of her quest. She was afraid of murmuring it in her sleep. It stood beside her as a dark shadow in the likeness of Colonel Fajardo.
Such were her meditations when the yacht sighted the lofty hill of Cocos Island and stood in to approach the black headlands that guarded the bay. Soon the passage opened to view, and the sheltered water with the glistening beach, the jungle, and the cocoanut palms. Captain Truscoe was at the wheel. Teresa stood at his elbow. Tensely anxious, she dared not say what was in her mind. The skipper bit off a chew of tobacco and rapped out:
“No vessel in here. What about that? A wild-goose chase!”
“Is there no other anchorage?” implored Teresa. “Why, I was sure we would see the rusty old Valkyrie!”
“No other holding ground for steam or sail. Look at the chart for yourself.”
“But they were bound to Cocos Island,” panted Teresa. “My friend the gunner’s mate—the young man I met in The Broadway Front—he saw the Valkyrie heading this way when he spoke her in his destroyer. And Mr. Jerry Tobin was absolutely certain of it.”
“Come and gone, maybe,” said Captain Truscoe, “but I never heard of these treasure bugs scamperin’ off like that. We’ll take a look ashore.”