“Oh, Lord!” I ejaculated, “and I shall have to go all the way back up that horrible hill. Don’t you wait for me, please. If you don’t mind just going on board and sending the boat back, we shall be ready, and by that time Parsons and Hines will have joined us. We are a little too early as it is.”
“The others come from the Amaranth, I presume?”
“Yes; there’s the boat”—for we had arranged they should at any rate start, and not turn back till they had seen the detective decoyed below deck on board the Saratoga.
“Au revoir!” I cried, and without turning, up the hill I hastened, only too delighted and relieved to hear the boat put off and the soft plash of the oars behind me.
I never turned till I got to the telegraph office, and then Brentin and I stood there and watched with breathless interest. Brentin had glasses with him, and at once turned them on the Saratoga.
“Van Ginkel receives him,” he chuckled, “with stately, old-fashioned courtesy. Thompson explains how it is he is alone, and that the boat is to go back for us. Van Ginkel insists on taking his plaid shawl, and entreats him to come below out of the sun. He leads the way, and they go to the head of the saloon companion-ladder, engaged in affable conversation and friendly rivalry for the shawl. They disappear. Bravo! The Amaranth boat turns back. The Saratoga men rapidly haul their own boat on board. The anchor is apparently already weighed. Animated figures cross and recross the deck. Orders are rapidly given—she’s off! By Heaven, sir, she’s off!”
A long pause, while the shapely Saratoga begins to leave the harbor and head for the open sea. She crosses the bows of the Amaranth, where the rest of our company are standing, with Captain Evans and his crew, waiting and watching.
“Ah, ha!” roared Brentin, suddenly. “Thompson’s head reappears, without his hat. He looks round him, scared. He hurries to the captain, who is walking the bridge, his hands behind him, his eye watchful. He speaks to the captain. He shouts, he beats the bridge, he foams at the mouth. The captain pays him no heed—no heed, sir, whatever. He even casually steps on his fingers. Ha! he rushes to the man at the wheel. He gesticulates, he yells, he attempts to seize the wheel. Steady, Scotland Yard! You should know better than that. Bravo! The man at the wheel kicks a long leg out at him and shouts to the captain. The captain gives sharp, decisive orders. Bravo! Well done! Bailey Thompson is seized by a couple of Long Tom Coffins and hurried away. They hurry him, struggling violently, to the head of the companion-ladder. Down with him, gentlemen! Down with him, among the dead men! Bravo!”
Bailey Thompson’s struggle and discomfiture were watched by our friends on the Amaranth with interest at least as keen as ours. As the Saratoga fell away across their bows, and Thompson disappeared down the companion-ladder, Captain Evans takes off his cap and leads his brave fellows to a cheer. They cheer vociferously and derisively, the ladies wave their handkerchiefs.
“Exit Mr. Bailey Thompson!” cried Brentin, and taking off his hat he gave a loud “Hurray!” much to the astonishment of the man outside the telegraph office, who stands there with a tray of colored pince-nez for sale, as a protection against the Monte Carlo glare of white roads and blue sparkling sea.