A very distant, not easily understood voice came to them. There seemed to be some interference which not even their well-made loose coupler could filter out. Apparently there could be nothing very entertaining about this, except the desire to get the better of a difficult task.
“— Atlantic. Latitude 39 — — — chased her, but — lost —. The fog was — — —. On board, when start — — transferred, we think. Headed west. Got a radio from the Government tug Nev — —. Think it must have been the same. Putting in toward Point Gifford, they said —. Think they have landed by now. Better opportunity to demand ransom from the —. Italian all right; sure of that. — The banker will — — — — —. So you be — — — —.”
The voice died away; a few clickings came and then silence. Bill turned to Gus. In matters of jumping at conclusions, he had long learned to depend most on his chum’s undoubted talents, just as Gus, in most things mental, played second fiddle to Bill.
“Say, Gus, could it be—?” Bill whispered.
“Sure is! Nothing else. Ransom, banker, Italian.”
Gus felt no uncertainty. “They’re after them, sure. Mr. Sabaste has had the hunt kept up on land and sea—we know that. And this is just a clue—an attempt to get on the trail again. Point Gifford—Bill, I know that country. Went all along the coast there once with Uncle Bob. You remember when? He was cutting timber down in the coast swamps. I explored—great place for that! Sand dunes, pines, inlets; awfully wild. Some old cabins here and there.”
“They’re landing there. Gus, I’ll bet they’re going to bring—do you think it can be Tony, Gus?”
“Who else? They’re trying to make Mr. Sabaste pay a ransom and they’re going to be in a place where they can make sure of getting it. What Tony said about the Malatesta bunch being short of money must be true, and I guess that restaurant business made it worse. They’re going to try to make a pretty sure thing——”
“But Gus, this radio was intended for somebody on shore who will watch them and maybe nab them.”
“No, indeed. They’re not likely to nab them. They have already landed, you see, and the detectives will watch the Upper Point, which is the only landing place. But if these chaps are foxy, they will come to the Lower Point, ten miles south, and cut across the inlet and the thoroughfare in a small boat. Then their yacht, or whatever she is, will sail up past the Upper Point, put to sea and the detectives will think she has given up the idea of landing. I rather think I’m on to what their scheme will be. An old oysterman showed me what some smugglers did, and got away with it for a long time. I guess the state police never have got on to this.”