Kidnapping Coline/Part 4

OLINE was about to speak when a white-clad figure appeared at the mouth of the short, wide path which I had cleared through the brush; for, as I have already said, we had located our camp in the shelter of the jungle, which at this particular spot was fairly dense.

“Coline!” cried a rich, resonant voice, “Thank God I have found you at last!”

A tall, well-built man brushed past Saltonstall and me, and, striding up to Coline, reached for her hand and carried it to his lips. Coline permitted the salutation, then stepped back.

“How do you do, Konrad,” said she, quietly. “Captain Saltonstall, let me present Count Von Reibnitz—and Count Von Reibnitz, Mr. Hamilton.”

Von Reibnitz turned with a slight bow and his cold, pale eyes rested first on Saltonstall, then on me, with a swift, keen look which held something between amusement and contempt, especially as they flitted to our weapons. He turned again to Coline.

“So this is where your good father has hidden you away,” said he, and looked around with a smile at our encampment. “My word, what an extraordinary thing to do! And these gentlemen are, I presume, your jailers?”

“'Guardians' would be a better word, sir,” said Saltonstall, stiffly. Von Reibnitz's smile gave way to a slight frown. He was a handsome man of about thirty-five, dark of coloring and with a tanned, weather-hardened face from which his light, amber-colored eyes shone with a rather startling effect. The shape of his head showed race and birth; his nose was high-bridged and predatory, and he had a good mouth and jaw, firm but not heavy. Everything about him bespoke the thoroughbred—his lean, athletic figure, well-shaped hands, broad shoulders, and small waist. I did not wonder that he had fascinated the girl. There was certainly nothing about him which suggested the buccaneer, and his voice and accent were those of an English gentleman. In fact, his general type was far more English than German.

As Saltonstall spoke, Von Reibnitz favored him with a rather bold stare which, as he took in the immaculate costume of the captain, gave way to a smile of amusement. Then his eyes passed to me and I thought that they narrowed for a fleeting second.

“Did I understand Miss Satterlie to say that your name is Hamilton?” he asked. “This yacht which I have chartered belongs to a Mr. Hamilton. A relative, perhaps?”

“She belongs to me,” I answered.

He slightly raised his eyebrows. “Really? Then let me congratulate you on owning a deuced fine schooner. Sails like a witch. 'Pon my word, but this is a jolly odd situation! Never would have believed it of Mr. Satterlie. He seems such a quiet, easy-going sort. But really, gentlemen, if you don't mind my saying so, it is a bit—eh—irregular. One scarcely goes in for kidnapping, nowadays.”



“Permit me to inform you, sir,” said Saltonstall, “that Miss Satterlie sailed from San Francisco on the vessel which I had the honor to command, of her own will and accord. I take exception to the word 'kidnapping,' sir.”

“Sorry, Captain. I meant no offense. But if you don't mind my asking, did Miss Satterlie remain on this island of her own free will and accord?”

The color flooded Saltonstall's face. “That, sir,” said he, harshly, “is none of your affair.”

“Ah, but it is, though,” von Reibnitz answered, pleasantly, “because, you see, Miss Satterlie is my promised wife.”

“I fail to see anything of the sort. If Miss Satterlie gave such a promise it was when she was under age, and as a minor she has no right to affiance herself without the consent of her father.”

Von Reibnitz nodded. “No doubt you're right,” he answered. “However, she's of age now and, that being the case, you surely won't deny her right to do as she pleases, what? Flossy old bird, Satterlie. Never would have thought he had it in him.” He laughed, softly, then continued: “I say, but you seem to have done yourselves jolly well here.” His swift glance roved from the tents to the poultry-yard and took in a glimpse of the garden, a vista of which could be seen through an opening that I had cut in the brush. “Poultry and fresh vegetables—how in the world did you manage it?” He looked at Coline. “You might ask me to luncheon, really. I've been on salt rations for a fortn't.” He laughed. “May I join you?”

“Of course you may,” Coline answered. She had been watching him closely with a rather dazed look in her blue eyes. “It's time, too. But you'll have to help, Konrad. We do our own work on Secret Island.”

“Ripping. Turn me right to. I'm not a half-bad cook—or if you'd rather I'll peel potatoes—I see you've got some out there—or set the table, or anything you like. By George, but it would be good to sit down to a shore meal again.”

“We haven't anything to drink but spring water,” said Coline. “Did you get any fish, Jack?”

“Yes,” I answered. “I left them down by the spring.”

“Then if you'll get them ready we'll start the fire and set the table. Do hurry. I'm famished.”

Guessing that she wished to speak to Von Reibnitz alone, I turned away and started for the spring, Saltonstall accompanying me. Out of earshot of the camp he observed, sepulchrally:

“This is the devil of a note, Jack.”

“It sure is,” I answered. “Here I stick on two guns to receive this pirate and now I'm packed off to clean fish for his luncheon.”

“I must say,” remarked Saltonstall, “he is scarcely the sort of individual I had expected to encounter. According to Island gossip he wears hoofs and horns, but they certainly were not in evidence. His manner and appearance would indicate a most inoffensive person.”

“Satterlie warned me that he was a smooth article,” I answered, “but I must say I hadn't quite looked for such a Piccadilly polish. One thing is certain: he hasn't come here with any idea of a row. He's too sure of his ground. Good-looking scoundrel, isn't he?”

“He wears his clothes well,” admitted Saltonstall grudgingly, “and is certainly a gentleman to all outward appearance. It's too bad that you didn't freshen up a little, Jack.” And he cast a regretful glance at my far from immaculate ducks and collarless shirt.

“I'll do that while they are cooking luncheon,” I answered. “You can't expect me to clean fish in duds like yours.”

We arrived at the spring and I set to work with a deftness which came of experience, while Saltonstall, after spreading his handkerchief on a dry stone, sat down and watched me in gloomy silence.

“Ha—” said he, presently, and it was a sigh rather than an ejaculation. “Ha, Jack, it is difficult to tell just what course of action to take.”

“It depends principally on Coline,” I answered.

He shook his head. “A dangerous man with women,” said he, dismally.

Our conversation languished after that, and presently we returned. As we neared camp we saw the gig approaching again as it had done a half hour before. Saltonstall eyed it with suspicion. I believe the idea crossed his mind that Von Reibnitz had enticed Coline away during our absence, though why the boat should return would have been a problem.

To our surprise Coline, instead of preparing luncheon, was watching the boat through the captain's glasses. My anger rose again. Apparently Von Reibnitz had gone out on some errand, and Coline couldn't bear him out of her sight.

“Oh, he'll come back, Coline. Never fear,” I said, or rather growled, I suppose, for Saltonstall glared at me, whether for my bad temper or my tactlessness I do not know.

By the time I had freshened up, the table was set and several interesting-looking bottles of old Rhine wine, Medoc, and sherry were poking their necks from a bucket of cool water. The stove was burning cheerfully, while Coline, with the sleeves of her blouse rolled above her dimpled elbows, was stirring up an omelet of hen's eggs, and Von Reibnitz with his coat off was standing by with the seasoning. They appeared to be having a very cheerful time. Coline's face was flushed from mingled excitement and heat, and little tendrils of her sunny hair were curling in snug wisps from the moisture of her forehead.

It occurred to me with a pang that nothing which I had been able to say or do had ever succeeded in bringing that brightness to her eyes and the same demure dimples to the comers of her mouth. Her manner, too, was different from what it had ever been with me. It held a kind of feverish gaiety, with a certain quality of indecision unusual in Coline—laughter, hectic flushes, frowns, and swift attacks of shyness all inextricably woven together. It was plain enough that Von Reibnitz acted upon her as a powerful stimulant, whereas my influence had usually been that of a sedative. Coline was always sure of herself with me and often sure of me, as well, but with Von Reibnitz she seemed self-conscious and a little erratic.

Our luncheon was remarkable for the fact that all but the wines came from our own resources, as Coline would not permit Von Reibnitz to fetch anything from the yacht. She had written menu cards, one of which I have preserved. It reads as follows:

We were all hungry, and as if by tacit consent our personal relations were set aside as we applied ourselves to this excellent luncheon, which, when all is said and done, it would have been hard to improve upon, no matter where. Poor old Saltonstall, who was naturally a good trencherman and a bit of an epicure, and who had been practically starving on tinned foods for the last two months, broke his long fast in a way which it did my heart good to see. Von Reibnitz certainly understood wines, and it was not long before the atmosphere of constraint began to relax and a quality of cheerfulness to manifest itself.

Von Reibnitz was largely responsible for this, and I could not but admire the man's easy tactfulness. There was not the slightest shade of the proprietary in his manner toward Coline, and when he referred to the situation at all, which he did no more than was necessary, it was in the light of a tremendous lark and a good joke on Satterlie. It was apparent that he expected from us no opposition to Coline's own voluntary control of her actions, and he seemed to feel assured of her choice.



Captain Saltonstall, while he did not actually thaw, as one might say, grew nevertheless more at his ease during the progress of the meal. Half-famished, as he must have been, the unaccustomed stimulant mounted to his head, as one could see from the glow which crept into his lean, furrowed cheeks and the increasing brightness of his lustrous eyes. Von Reibnitz was an excellent talker in his jerky way. He told some amusing stories which sent Coline into shrieks of laughter and even brought a grim smile from the captain, described some plays which he had seen in the East, touched on art, literature, music, and sports—in a word, kept us excellently entertained, which after all was not so difficult, considering how long we had been shut off from the world.

It was not until we were taking coffee that Von Reibnitz came back to the situation in hand, and this he did in a frank and candid way which was difficult to combat.

“'Pon my word,” said he, lighting a fragrant cigar, the mates of which he had given to Saltonstall and myself, “if I'd guessed for a second what excellent care was being taken of our princess on her Secret Isle, I'd have gone quietly about my business and waited for her father to fetch her home again. But when that old vulture Craven came flappin' up to me with his finger on the side of his nose and told me that her father had seen fit to maroon her for six months or a year on some lonely island in the South Pacific, I nearly went off my chump. Wouldn't you have done the same?” And his pale eyes rested on me.

“You might have known that her father would have taken good care to see that she was safe and comfortable,” I answered.

“Right. But just the same I was jolly upset. I went straight to Mr. Satterlie, and old Craven with me. Jove, but we did have a time of it! When Mr. Satterlie learned that Craven had got his information from the mate of the Sabbath Day I thought that he was going to have a stroke.

“'I'll have you disbarred, my friend, for violating a professional confidence, if it costs me my fortune,' said he.

“Craven grinned in his face. Said he: 'Go ahead, my dear sir, if you think it worth your while. But permit me to point out that, in the first place, the interview between Mr. Whistler and myself was not in the nature of a consultation, but an avowal on his part of a proposed crime. My advice to him, for which I would accept no pay, was that he had better keep entirely out of the business, which was quite illegal and subject to prosecution by the district attorney.'

“Mr. Satterlie was a bit staggered at this. In the end he got sulky and refused to say a word, telling us both to go to the devil.

“'I may, later on,' I assured him, 'but just now I'm going to look for my fiancée.' You see,” continued Von Reibnitz, half apologetically, “when I learned how strongly he felt about it I was more bothered than ever, not knowing but what Miss Satterlie might be cooped up on some beastly little rock-heap where she might go quite dippy from lonesomeness. Besides, Mr. Satterlie had played it rather low-down on me, taking the say-so of Island gossip that I was some brute of an adventurer who was after his daughter's money. He actually tried to buy me off, which I must say was a little thick. So I looked around a bit and, finding Mr. Hamilton's yacht offered for charter, I took her over and started for the South Pacific. Studying the chart, it seemed to me that the most out-of-the-way place I could think of was this island.”

“Then you came straight here?” I asked.

“Right. I'd been here once before, prospectin' for pearls. You see, I went about the business just as if I were in Mr. Satterlie's place, and as it's turned out I was right. Well, now that I'm here it seems to me that the best thing is for the lot of us to go aboard the Sayonara and sail back to 'Frisco. What?”

His light-colored eyes rested first on Coline, then Saltonstall, then me. Coline had grown pale again and her fingers played nervously with her coffee-spoon. Saltonstall's eyebrows were drawn straight across in a heavy frown. He shook his head slowly.

“In my opinion, Count Von Reibnitz,” said he, slowly and judicially, “it would be better for all concerned if you were to go aboard your schooner and return to San Francisco, leaving us to wait for the Sabbath Day, which is due here in about three weeks. Right or wrong, we have our distinct orders from Mr. Satterlie, which orders we purpose to carry out to the letter. My instructions from Mr. Satterlie were that in the event of his daughter's whereabouts being discovered, I was to bring her home, after which I was to be relieved from further responsibility.”

Von Reibnitz's eyes narrowed. “You seem to forget, Captain,” said he, “that Miss Satterlie is now her own mistress.”

“But look here. Von Reibnitz,” said I, “you said a minute ago that if you had known that Miss Satterlie was being so well taken care of, you would have gone about your own business and waited for her father to bring her back. Well, you know it now.”

He gave me a baleful look. “But how am I to know,” said he, “that instead of taking her back to 'Frisco you may not sail her off to some other God-forsaken place where I could never find her?”

Saltonstall's bushy brows came lower. “Because,” he answered, in his deepest bass, “I have the honor to inform you that I shall return to San Francisco with Miss Satterlie.”

A shadow crossed Von Reibnitz's lean, handsome face and I could see that he was struggling to restrain his temper. When he spoke it was in a mild, propitiating tone.

“Far be it from me, as one gentleman, to doubt the word of another,” he answered. “But after all, that point is beside the question. To get right down to brass tacks, Miss Satterlie has now the right to decide for herself.” He turned to Coline, who had grown even more pale and seemed to be breathing with some difficulty. “What do you say, Coline?”

There was a tense silence of some moments, during which our three pairs of eyes were fixed intently on the girl. Although I am commonly considered a phlegmatic person (possibly because I early cultivated the habit of not showing what I feel by any outward signs), my heart was beating with a violence which I was sure must be audible. So much depended on the girl's answer. Affirmative, it might mean tragedy, for Saltonstall and I had no intention of letting Coline come again under Von Reibnitz's influence while there was strength in our bodies; and I had little doubt that were she to decide in his favor he would consider us in the fight of criminal abductors and treat us accordingly. Negative, her decision might give him pause, in which case I thought it likely that he would linger on at the island in the hope of regaining his former moral ascendency. But with two such watch-dogs as Saltonstall and myself I doubted that he would find much opportunity for accomplishing this.

No doubt Von Reibnitz knew what was passing in our minds, for the man was shot with strong, primitive instincts, and the pale glare of his eyes as they sought to grip Coline's held a kind of compelling quality that was almost hypnotic. Coline in her distress looked first at Saltonstall, then at me, but she did not seem to dare to look at Von Reibnitz. So long she took to answer that I was about to break the silence, claiming the right to decide for her and backing it up, if necessary, by whatever the situation might demand, when Von Reibnitz said, sharply:

“Well, Coline, you want to go back with me. You know you do.”

She started, then seemed about to speak, when I said, quietly:

“No coercion, if you please, Count. Miss Satterlie must be left free to decide for herself. Think well, Coline.”

He did not answer nor take his eyes from the girl's face, but I saw the muscles of his jaw harden under his clear, tanned skin. Coline threw me an appealing look.

“I—I can't decide right now,” she said, tremulously. “I—I must think it over. Excuse me, please.”

And, rising unsteadily from the table, she sought the shelter of her tent.

After Coline had withdrawn. Von Reibnitz, Saltonstall, and I sat for some moments smoking in silence. Then said Von Reibnitz:

“I say, this is a jolly awkward situation, isn't it?”

“It is one which can be very easily solved, my dear sir,” replied Saltonstall.

Von Reibnitz shot him a swift, challenging look. “How, pray tell?” he asked.

“By the tack of your topsail,” said Saltonstall, curtly.

“Meaning that I had better clear out?”

“You catch my suggestion admirably.”

“But I can't do that, you know,” protested Von Reibnitz. “What would Miss Satterlie think of me?”

“She would undoubtedly think that you were showing the greatest—ha—tact and delicacy. Now that you have seen that she is entirely comfortable and—hem—ably protected, the idea of a possible rescue must appear even to yourself, sir, quite unnecessary and uncalled-for. More than that, to make myself quite plain, even should she decide to go aboard the Sayonara, Mr. Hamilton and myself in our capacity of guardians appointed by Mr. Satterlie would not feel justified in permitting such a step.”

An ugly look appeared in Von Reibnitz's eyes, but he managed to banish it, and sat for a moment tugging at his black, wiry mustache.

“Then am I to understand,” said he, slowly, “that you intend to keep Miss Satterlie a prisoner here against her will?”

“Only until the arrival of her father's schooner, when she will be taken to San Francisco.”

“And the fact that she is of age and legally entitled to her personal liberty counts for nothing with you?”

“Nothing whatever, sir,” replied Saltonstall, with emphasis. “That is a point which we absolutely ignore. We do not even admit that she is of age. You say that she is and she says that she is, but we are not compelled to take the word of either of you. We have been appointed by her father to safeguard her and we propose to do it. We have no official testimony that she is of age, or will be for many months. All we know is that we were appointed by her father during her minority to remove her from what he considered to be a dangerous influence, and the question of age does not concern us. In order to induce us to surrender our custody of her, it will be necessary for you to produce documentary evidence that she is of legal age.”

I could have hugged the dear old chap. Such a line of defense would never have occurred to me, and it was evident that Von Reibnitz was for the moment a little nonplused. Quite aside from his quick-witted justification of our position, Saltonstall himself was impressive. Leaning forward with his bony elbows on the table, his big, glowing eyes filled with fire, nostrils distended, and the strong, yellow teeth gleaming from under his back-drawn lip, he looked as sinister as a man-eating stallion. There was a harsh rasp to his booming bass and a conviction to words that struck with the force of a fore-hoof and battered into the masked and subtle will opposed to him like a broad-ax opposed to a rapier. Von Reibnitz seemed to draw back a little before his vehemence.

His next words were mild enough, and calculated, I thought, to make Saltonstall's heat appear unwarranted and ill-timed. I remembered Satterlie's having said that Von Reibnitz possessed to a marked degree the talent for cheapening his opponent.

“Oh, come. Captain,” said he, with the slightest drawl, “that will hardly wash. This indiscreet mate of yours explained carefully to old Craven that Satterlie's reason for sequestering his daughter was that she would be of age in a fortnight and that he was afraid of her taking matters into her own hands as soon as she might be legally entitled to. You know quite well that you have no more right to keep Miss Satterlie here against her will than you would have to keep me.”

For about the hundredth time I cursed Whistler in my heart. Unhappy man! If the combined anathemas of Satterlie and myself (for Saltonstall took his indiscretion more in sorrow than anger) had been effective, the mate would have sunk to perdition like a “dipsy lead” into the sea. Von Reibnitz surely held a strong hand, but it did not dismay old Saltonstall, who doubted that he had the nerve to play it.

“That may all be very true, my dear sir,” said Saltonstall, blandly. “Far be it from me to doubt your word, although you have already questioned mine. But true or false, it does not affect the situation a jot. You have opposed to you, Count Von Reibnitz, one simple sailor-man of unstained reputation and two millionaires who are held in great esteem in their community. Should this case come into court, as you seem to imply, the past records of the parties concerned will be subjected to the most careful scrutiny. Personally, I know little of the law, and in the present instance I am quite content to be guided by the first fundamental principle of soldiers and sailors the world over. I mean to obey orders, my dear sir, come what may.”

Here was indeed a facer for Von Reibnitz. He knew, and not being a fool he must have known that we knew, that of all undesirable places for him a court of law headed the list. He drew back with a sort of silent snarl, like a malamute dog at the sight of a club. Yet he kept his head.

“You are taking a jolly lot for granted, Captain,” he said, with a bit of a sneer. “If you think that I'll balk at facing a jury you are mighty well mistaken. However, I see that there is no use in trying to argue the matter, so we might as well chuck it for the time being. I've been rotten badly treated throughout this whole business and I fancy I've got to get used to it. But don't let's be nasty about it. Talk it over with Miss Satterlie. Perhaps she may be able to convince you that this poor devil is not as black as he's painted. Anyhow, we've had a jolly good luncheon and I'm under obligation to you for your hospitality. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll get back aboard and send in a couple of boats after water. I don't suppose you mind my coming ashore to-morrow to call on my fiancée?”

“Not if it is in our presence, sir,” Saltonstall replied; “but there must be no private interviews.”

Von Reibnitz shrugged. “Very well,” he answered, reluctantly. “I suppose I've got to put up with what I can't help. Good afternoon. Captain—good afternoon, Mr. Hamilton.”

We returned his salute, and he strode back down the beach, signaled to his boat, and went off aboard the yacht.

When he had gone, Saltonstall sat for a few moments meditatively rolling his cigar in his lips. “I wonder what the scoundrel has up his sleeve, Jack,” said he, presently.

“Some trickery or other,” I answered. “He was too cursed complaisant to be honest.”

“We must keep a close watch on Coline,” said Saltonstall. “That animal hypnotizes her, Jack.”

“There's no doubt of that. She goes all to pieces when he's around. I'm going to talk to her, if she'll let me.”

“Do so, my dear fellow. Perhaps your sane, steady influence may act as a tonic. If you don't mind my sharing your tent I'll go back to the lake and get a few of my things. We must watch her closely, Jack. The mere fact of Von Reibnitz being careful not to threaten any force makes me suspicious. Ha!”—explosively—“just let him try it, Jack! Are you a good shot?”

“Not bad.”

“Nor I. Ha—see you later, my boy.” And Saltonstall rose to his great height and strode off toward the spring.

I found Coline sitting on the edge of her cot, her face resting in her hands, staring at the drab side of the tent. She looked up, listlessly, as I entered.

“Has he gone, Jack?”

“Yes,” I answered, “but he's not gone for good, worse luck. Why didn't you tell him to clear out, Coline? You don't mind waiting here another three weeks, do you?”

“No-o—” she answered, slowly, “it's not that. Oh, I'm so wretched. Jack,” and she let her face fall into her hands and breathed deeply for a moment. I dropped into a wicker chair opposite her. Coline raised her head and stared at me with a drawn face.

“It's no use, Jack; I've got to marry him.”

“Nonsense!”

“I have, though. A promise is a promise—and besides, he's my fate, I think. He can do as he likes with me, Jack. You know I'm not exactly a spineless person, but Konrad seems to take all of the fight out of me. And he is attractive, Jack—don't you think?”

“He has magnetism,” I admitted, “but it's not a wholesome sort. He's a mauvais génie, Coline—a bad influence; and you know it just as well as I do.”

“I'm not so sure,” she answered, dreamily. “Think what a bad time he's had, Jack. Practically exiled from his own country, where his family were rich and respected nobility; disinherited by his father, ostracized by his friends and acquaintances.”

“His own fault.”

“But he was only a boy—a hot-headed student in the university. Then he came out to the Pacific and since then he's fought his way up with every man's hand turned against him.”

“And why?” I interrupted. “Because he's a rank, cold-blooded egoist, if all accounts are true.”

“Ah, but that's just the point,” she cried eagerly. “Are they true? And even if they are, might not an atmosphere of affection soften his nature?”

“It hasn't so far,” I answered, dryly, “and he is said to have bathed in a good many such atmospheres.”

Coline made a gesture of impatience. “Always hearsay, Jack,” said she. “Saltonstall himself says that there's no such place for gossip as Oceanica. I don't believe all of these tales about Konrad. He is a gentleman, and gentlemen don't do such things.”

My heart sank and, seeing the uselessness of this line of argument, I stood off on an other tack. “But you don't love him, Coline. You know you don't. He attracts you and fascinates you, and his nature exerts some peculiar domination over yours. But you know yourself that you are actually happier away from him than with him. Aren't you?”

Her face went red and white. “I—I don't know,” she answered, rather breathlessly.

“Well then, I do. You've been happy as a lark here on the island, and now, the minute that Von Reibnitz shows up, you're pale and nervous and miserable. You just said that you were wretched. For heaven's sake, send him about his business, Coline! He's holding it over Saltonstall and me that you are the free director of your own actions, and that we have no more right to detain you here against your will than we should have to detain himself. You are putting us in the wrong, Coline, and may make it very hard for us, for I tell you frankly that we do not intend to let you go aboard the Sayonara.”

She took her little chin in one hand and looked up at me, curiously. “And would you really use force to prevent it. Jack—if I insisted on going?”

“Yes,” I answered, “just as we would use force to prevent your walking into a tiger's cage. Failing to stop you, we'd shoot the tiger.”

Her eyes flashed, and some of its habitual animation came back to her pallid face. “Do you mean to say that you two would tackle Konrad and his entire crew?”

“Down to the cabin-boy,” I answered, decidedly, “and you can see what that would mean. They would naturally defend themselves, and somebody would be pretty apt to get his gruel. Von Reibnitz would have the law behind him and claim that we were no better than kidnappers.”

Coline was silent for a moment, then said slowly: “Very well, Jack. I'll tell him that I prefer to wait for the Sabbath Day.”

I gave a great sigh of relief. “Thank you, Coline,” I said. “That will be better for everybody.” Then, a sudden idea striking me, I said: “Why not write him a note, telling of your decision, and I will take it down to the beach and signal for a boat. Tell him that this is final and ask him to clear out.”

“Very well,” she answered submissively.

So the note was written forthwith and I was spared the necessity of signaling to the yacht, as on leaving the tent I saw two of the Sayonara's boats pulling in toward the beach opposite the spring. Walking down to meet them, I came on a Portuguese bos'n and four hands, two of whom looked like Scandinavians and the other two nondescript mongrels spawned of the seven seas. I gave the bos'n the note, with a piece of money, then turned on my heel and walked back to the camp under fire of their curious stares.

Coline had obviously brightened, now that her decision was formed, and we turned to cleaning up the luncheon things and performing sundry little household duties.

The afternoon passed, and as the sun got lower and Saltonstall had not returned I began to get a little anxious, wondering what could possibly have detained him. An hour and a half should have been quite enough time for him to return to the cave, collect a few of his effects, and get back to the camp. When finally the sun kissed the horizon I became certain that he must have met with some accident, and Coline was of the same opinion.

“You'd better go up there, Jack,” said she. “Something has certainly happened him. Take a lantern—it will be dark before you get back.”

I disliked leaving her alone, but there seemed to be no help for it, so, picking up the lantern, I started off. In the tropics night crowds closely on the sunset, but a great pale-green moon was hung in the eastern sky and this was growing silvery as I came out of the jungle and started to pick my way over the rough lava rocks at the end of the lake. I reached the ledge and paused to give a shout.

“Oh, Captain!” I hailed.

Before the echo had returned from the cliffs at the end of the lake, I heard from close to where I stood a feeble moan, followed by a quavering “Here, Jack,” and, looking in that direction, saw a large hand and arm raised above the rim of a fallen fragment of rock. Hurrying to the spot, I came on Saltonstall. He was lying, a grotesque tangle of long arms and legs, flung, as it seemed, against the base of the cliff under the narrow ledge which ascended to his cave. In the dim light I saw that his face was bathed in blood, which had clotted on an ugly gash over the temple. His big face was colorless, and he opened his eyes weakly and with an effort.

“Good God!” I cried. “What's happened to you?”

He struggled to answer me, appeared to lack the strength, tried again, and I caught the mumbling words: “Sack caught—threw me off my balance—water, Jack.”

It needed but a glance to see how the accident had occurred. The sack was one of these long, cylindrical affairs known to sailors as a “dunnage bag,” and to carry it with greater ease Saltonstall had slung the lanyard over his head and across his shoulder. As he was striding along the narrow ledge, more or less preoccupied, no doubt, and going at an incautious pace, the lanyard had fouled on a projecting spur of rock. Jerked thus off his balance, Saltonstall's foot had slipped, and the next instant he had gone over the brink to fall on the broken stones some twelve feet beneath. His forehead had struck a sharp stone which had cut it like a knife, and he must have lost a prodigious amount of blood before the wound clotted, for his upper garments were saturated and already caking stiff.

I stretched him out and went over him carefully. No bones were broken, so far as I could ascertain, but one ankle was terribly swollen and already discolored. Poor man, he had been lying there for at least three hours, two of them in the full blaze of the afternoon sun.

Making him as comfortable as possible, I hurried down to the lake with a tin pail which I found in the cave. I let him drink his fill, afterward sluicing his head and binding up the wound with wet bandages. This revived him considerably and, although terribly weak from loss of blood, he began to urge me to throw a blanket over him, leave him a pail of water, and return at once to the camp.

This, of course, was not to be thought of, but on the other hand I hated the idea of leaving Coline alone and unprotected, the more so as it was possible that Von Reibnitz, on receiving her note, might come ashore to protest. If he found her alone, there was no telling what might happen. Yet a mist was already forming over the still lake, for there was not a breath of air, and I did not know what miasmas it might contain, to which Saltonstall, in his weakened condition, might prove an easy victim. If I could have got him up to his cave I would have done so, but he was unable to stand, let alone walk, and the ledge was too narrow to admit of my carrying him.

There were, however, other and smaller caverns which were accessible, and I decided to install him for the present in one of these. The darkness was already falling, so I lighted my lantern, scrambled up to the cave and got his hammock, and after a little search was able to find a suitable shelter in which to leave him until my return. Then I managed to get him across my back and stagger up over the broken rock to this temporary refuge. Bruised as he was, this hauling about must have cost him frightful pain, but never so much as a groan escaped him. I made him as comfortable as possible, then, leaving the pail of water within his reach and telling him that I would soon be back with Coline, I set out for the camp. It was not dark, for by this time the moon was high.

Slipping and stumbling, I ran back over the clattering stones and plunged into the path that led to the beach. As I burst out by the spring the lagoon lay before me like a burnished shield of Milan steel under the deep, metallic blue of the night sky. From its center rose the schooner, and as my eyes fell on her I saw that her foresail was set, and there came to my ears the creak and whine of the sheaves as the hands hauled away at the mainsail halyards.

“Good!” I thought to myself. “Von Reibnitz has decided to make the best of a bad job and get out with the first slant of the trades at sunrise.”

It was a comforting reflection, and I strolled easily to the camp, wiping the sweat from my eyes, for the night was sultry and I had run most of the way back. It had taken me over two hours to go and come. I knew that Coline would be anxious, so as I neared the camp I sang out: “Here I am, Coline!”

There was no answer, and I decided that she must have fallen asleep. My lantern was still lighted, though I had scarcely needed it in the vivid moonlight, so I went directly to her tent and called again. As before, there was no answer. I raised the lantern and looked inside. Coline was not there. I rushed to the “music-room.” Lalla Rookh leaped down from a sort of divan affair which we had arranged and came purring against my legs.

“Coline—Coline—” I called.

There was no reply, but across the waters of the lagoon there came again the creak of the sheaves and a subdued chantey as the hands hove away.

My knees seemed to buckle under me. Coline was gone! Von Reibnitz had taken her, either by force or persuasion, it mattered little which. She was out there in the tiger's cage, and here was I without so much as a raft, and Saltonstall lying bruised and broken back there by the lake!

I dropped to the ground, covered my face with my hands, and the maledictions which I had bestow on Whistler were mere pleasantries compared to those which I now showered on myself.

From cursing myself I turned to cursing Satterlie for his fatuous idea, Whistler for his craven perfidy, Saltonstall for his carelessness in falling off the ledge, and Von Reibnitz on general principles. Then, realizing that there was neither strength nor comfort to be gained in cursing, I strode down to the beach and hailed the schooner, time after time, but with no result. Once I thought I heard a low, mocking laugh ripple telephonically across the still water, but of this I could not be sure.

What I did hear, however, was the clatter of the windlass and the clank of the chain cable as it came in through the hawsepipe. I wondered a little at this, as I did not believe that there was any air stirring even aloft, and although the tide was about two hours on the ebb there was needed steerage way to make the passage of the reefs. But the maneuver was quickly explained when presently I heard the rattle of oars and saw a small, dark blotch—in the moonlight under the schooner's bows. Von Reibnitz meant to tow out behind the boats.

Sick at heart, I lurched back to the camp. The game was up, and Von Reibnitz had won, less through his own cleverness than through my crass stupidity. Knowing the malign influence of the man over Coline, I doubted that once in his coils she would ever flutter free again. By the time that the first port was reached she would be helplessly his. Sobs burst out of me and I am ashamed to say that I wept like a child.

This weakness soon passed, and I began to think of Saltonstall, half dead and all alone in the little niche in the rocks where I had left him. There were a couple of bottles of wine remaining from our luncheon, and, throwing these and some remnants of food into a knapsack, I picked up the lantern and started back to the lake. Before plunging into the jungle I paused to look again at the lagoon. The yacht had broken out her anchor and was creeping slowly seaward behind the black, spidery things which clawed at the silvered water with flashing legs. I wondered a little at Von Reibnitz's haste, but decided that no doubt he hoped to catch a draft aloft with his topsails, once clear of the island.

Returning to the lake, I found Saltonstall much the same as when I had left him. Although terribly weak and apparently in great pain, his first question was about Coline. I answered by telling him that he must not worry, as she had written to Von Reibnitz to say that she had made up her mind to wait for the Sabbath Day and that he had weighed anchor and was towing out with the tide. This news seemed to soothe the poor chap more than the wine, and I thought miserably of what he would say when he should learn the truth.

As Saltonstall insisted that I return to the camp, I wished him good-night, then made my way to his cave. I could not have endured the loneliness of the camp, and as it was I passed such a night as I do not like to think of, even to-day. Before lying down I climbed to the top of the cliff for another look at the Sayonara, plainly visible in the brilliant light of the moon.

She had dropped down to the inner opening of the passage between the reefs and was evidently at anchor again, as she was lying head to tide. Apparently Von Reibnitz had not dared to attempt the passage in tow of the boats, fearing, no doubt, the tide-set against the reef and the dangerous eddies with which the place was filled. Not a breath of air was stirring.

The night wore on heavily. About one o'clock I stole down to see how Saltonstall fared and found him sleeping heavily. Then, returning to the cave, I ate some sardines and biscuits which I found among his stores, after which I stretched out on a blanket and waited miserably for the dawn. It came, at the end of an eternity, ushered in by a few bright beams which shot up to extinguish the low-hung stars. I had expected that a breeze would spring up with the dawn, but none came, and when at sunrise I climbed again to the summit of the cliff the sea on all sides stretched to the horizon as flat and motionless as new ice.

The Sayonara was in the same position, about half a mile this side of the passage and a mile and a half, perhaps, from the beach. Beyond her, long swells imperceptible to the eye foamed and whitened over the reef. The sails of the yacht were still hoisted, barring only the headsails, and it was plain that Von Reibnitz meant to go out with the first favorable slant. For a while I sat and watched the schooner, while a thousand torturing thoughts and fancies wove and spun like little devils through my tormented brain. Finally, I fled from the place and returned to the camp, where I killed a chicken and prepared a nourishing broth for Saltonstall, whom I had found sleeping quietly.

After taking a little food myself, I went back to the lake. Saltonstall had awakened, and he ate the food which I brought with a good relish. He was very stiff and sore and weak from loss of blood, but aside from his sprained ankle I could find no serious injury. I bathed him and got him into clean clothes, and he went to sleep again.

On leaving him I mounted to the cave, where I managed to get a couple of hours' sleep, after which I clambered to the summit again for another look at the Sayonara. The glassy calm still rested on the sea, and the yacht was in the same place, so I soon came down, as the sun was intensely hot.

About three in the afternoon I must have fallen asleep for a few moments, for when I awoke it was to feel a faint but refreshing draft of air fanning into the mouth of the cavern. I thought at once of the yacht, but as I knew that the tide must be flowing in I did not believe Von Reibnitz would try to go out. Nevertheless, I climbed up the rocks again to have a look and then, as I turned my burning, heavy-lidded eyes toward the sea, I received a shock which nearly sent me rolling down the cliff.