“Is it lost, do you think?”
“I—I suppose most of it is bobbing about in the surf of the Atlantic Ocean.”
“Not lost, but gone before,” murmured the doctor.
Stranleigh surmised that captain and mate knew more of the piratical, thieving nature of their expedition than he had supposed. They were both well aware that British cruisers were nosing about in all sorts of odd comers of the world, mostly where they were not wanted, but even so a worthy seaman, if engaged in his lawful occupation, had no reason to fall into a state of nervous collapse at the sight of a craft which looked like a baby torpedo boat. He had hitherto believed that captain, officers, and crew of the Rajah were innocent participators in a scheme of villainy and theft, but now he knew that the captain and mate were equally in the plot with the tall, dark-looking manager, and this information he placed at the back of his brain for future use when he should meet the captain on the open sea.
“Are you a naval officer, sir?” stammered the captain, speaking for the first time.
“Oh, dear, no,” replied Stranleigh airily; “merely a private person.”
All three heaved a simultaneous sigh of relief, and their statuesque posture lost something of its stiffness.
“I’m cruising about the coast in my yacht.”
“That isn’t your yacht, is it?” asked the mine manager.
“No, my yacht lies a few miles farther up the river, and is an ocean-going affair. It is built with an eye to comfort and to the housing of a good number of men.”