“Lightning doesn’t wound that way,” said Colton.
“No, I didn’t think so. But I thought I’d better tell you. Only in the noises of a gale you can hear all sorts of voices.”
“They didn’t say anything about a kind of rasping, creaking sound?” asked Haynes after a moment’s hesitation.
“No, sir,” said the man, surprised. “Nothing like that.”
Haynes turned away impatiently. “Come down to the Blue Hill station,” he said to Colton. “We’ll see if Miss Johnston’s patient can throw any light on this.”
During the walk Haynes was so deeply in thought and replied to Colton’s questions so curtly that the latter fell into silence. At the door of the station they were met by Helga.
“How’s your salvage, Princess?” queried Haynes. “Able to stand a cross-examination?”
“More than able—willing,” replied the girl with a smile. “He’s been telling us all about himself. Nothing queerer than he ever came ashore on Montauk. I’m afraid the sea-water has got into his brain a little.”
“Tell us what he said.”
“In the first place, he is some sort of a travelling juggler and magician. As soon as he is recovered he will give us a private exhibition in honour of his rescue. He calls himself ‘The Wonderful Whalley,’ though his real name is something like Cardonaro. An injury to his hand stranded him in Maine, and he took passage on the Milly Esham because it was a cheap way to New York. Age, forty-two; nationality, Portuguese; occupation, the theatrical profession. Anything else, Petit Père?”