Cy Liskard had made the great descent. Now he was standing in the shadow of the vessel lying upon the rocks, gazing up at the lettering of her name on her bluff bows. Some distance away behind him lay an empty dinghy hauled clear of the lapping waters.
The man had approached the vessel in a mood that was sheerly exulting. Here, undoubtedly, was his goal at last. It was a different goal from that which he had expected. But that was of no consequence. He had watched the dinghy behind him approach the rocks. He had seen the man leap out of it and haul it clear of the water. Then he had seen him approach the derelict and climb on board it. There was no mistake. He had recognised that tall, powerful figure on the instant. It was impossible for him to mistake it, even though it had been clad differently that night at the Speedway. He felt that he had his man in a trap, and it was a trap from which he had no intention of letting him escape.
There was a curious look in his pale eyes as he stared up at the vessel’s name. For once they had been stirred out of their customary expressionlessness. There was something almost like a smile in them. But it was shadowy. It was of the vaguest. And it only contrived to transform them into something tigerish.
At last he turned away, and as he did so a harsh sound broke from his lips. It might have been a short, hard laugh, only that not a muscle of his face had stirred. He moved slowly down the vessel’s length till he came to the rope ladder amidships. Then he paused. He thrust one hand into the pocket of his closely-buttoned pea-jacket and produced a heavy pistol. It was an automatic, and he examined its loading carefully. Then, with a hunching movement of his broad shoulders and a quick, frowning upward glance at the blazing sun, he seized the rope ladder and set foot on its bottom rung.
CHAPTER XVI
The Lazaret
THE last of the daylight had only just passed. It was nearing midnight, and the sky was clear and with every moment the night lights of the heavens were gaining power. Already a moving belt of Northern Lights had made its spectre-like appearance above the horizon, and the rare, clear atmosphere was ideal for their perfect development.
It was a wide flat in the hills something removed from the highway of the Alsek River, and, dotted about it, were the shadowy outlines of box-like human habitations, and the litter of a wide-flung oil camp. Here and there could clearly be seen the upstanding machinery of the drills with which the earth’s bosom had already been pierced.