I had calculated that Beela and Hobart should come in four hours. More than half that time was already gone when Christopher and I returned to our original hiding-place. That the storm, the Black Face, and Mr. Vancouver’s fate were interwoven, there could be no doubt. Barring hindering contingencies, matters were rapidly drawing to a crisis. If the necessity for urgent action on Mr. Vancouver’s account should arise before Beela’s return with Hobart, that young man would be caught in a trap, as there would be none but savages to meet him. In whatsoever direction I turned, many chances for a fatal slip and added complications appeared.
A solution of one branch of the problem crept out of the strain,—that of clearing the way for Hobart. I mentioned it to Christopher, and was gratified at his acquiescence.
“But what about Mr. Vancouver?” I asked.
“We have to wait for her, sir,” he answered after listening, and his manner was final.
The triple bird-note came. We waited. It was repeated. I slipped round to the trail used by the guard, and openly approached them. They stared at me in silence. Beela had told me that in an emergency Christopher and I, to explain peculiarities of our appearance that no disguise could conceal, should explain that we were from the western end of the island, where some white blood had mingled with the native, producing, with other deviations from the normal type, men of a more aggressive and daring disposition, which gave them an advantage over the natives at this end, and that on occasion the king called on the western men for special services.
“Why haven’t you done your duty?” I sternly demanded.
The guard showed only dull surprise, none either moving or speaking.
“Haven’t you seen the Black Face scowling?” I went on. “Go immediately and attend to your duty, or the Face won’t wait for a white man.”
They were impressed and frightened. “What shall we do?” asked one.
“Clean the stone in the clearing, and so make it ready. Every one of you go, at once. Then come back here.”