THE OPIUM SHIP

H Bedford-Jones

1919

Contents

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

Chapter 7 | Chapter 8

Chapter 9 | Chapter 10

Chapter 11 | Chapter 12

Chapter 13 | Chapter 14

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Note: The geographic names  "Tourane" and "Annam" herein, of 1919 French Colonial Indochina, are now "Da Nang" and "Vietnam" respectively.

1

The Fiddler

SIR GERALD Fitzjohn de Courcy Desmond, K. C. M. G., D. S. O., late flight commander in that section of his majesty’s Royal Flying Corps operating in Papuan waters, was dead broke and knew it. What was more to the point, he was drunk and did not know it.

This surprising, even tragic, event happened in Manila. Gerald Desmond had been in the city a week, upon his way home, without taking a drink; he was not what is termed a drinking man. Drinking men do not succeed in naval hydroplane work, at least to the extent of winning honors.

But, upon this amazing afternoon, while Gerald Desmond was playing bridge at the English Club, in the Paco section of town, he had received a cablegram. This cable message informed him that his uncle’s fortune had departed; that his uncle, a worthy baronet of manufacturing fame in Dublin, had departed on the heels of the fortune; and that he, Gerald Desmond, was now a baronet without an income. He had resigned his commission when the war ended, and had now neither job nor money.

Having settled his bridge score, he found fifty dollars in his pocket, and of this he devoted the major portion to the bar. Thus, at nine-ten upon that historic evening, he wandered to the cloakroom, pursued by a waiter with a forgotten drink.

“Sure, I’ll take it,” said Desmond, smiling brightly when the waiter gained his attention. “Here’s good luck to ye, lad, and many tips. Will ye have a bit drink yourself, now?”

The respectable China boy refused, with a blank stare.

Desmond allowed the attendant to help him into his overcoat; it was a chilly night. A plain black scarf covered his neckwear and white shirtfront. A black crush hat concealed his awkwardly red hair. An ebony stick fell over his arm.

“Will I call a cab, sir?” asked the attendant delicately. “Or a taxi?”

“Ye will not,” said Desmond, shocked. “Would you insinuate that I cannot walk?”

He left the attendant coughing apologetically, and made his way to the street. He was in a happy inward glow and did not feel a bit sorry for himself. Indeed, he felt rather rejoiced over the knowledge that he could follow a crack in the sidewalk with perfect accuracy and aplomb.

“Thunder o’ Finn!” he exclaimed joyously. “There’s somethin’ in havin’ Irish blood, after all— to say nothin’ of havin’ a brewer for an uncle, rest his soul!”

He directed his steps toward the Manila Hotel, which lies just beyond the Luneta, but the fresh night air gave him such an insidiously false idea of his condition that he changed his direction with the idea of getting a drink at the Elks’ or the Army and Navy. So he struck off down Calle Isaac Peral, but by the time he had passed the Cathedral he began to observe that there was something subtly and decidedly wrong with the sidewalk. Still he forged ahead, only to come to a halt when he reached the Del Pilar tramway line. There he leaned on his stick with patient resignation.

Presently he became aware that someone was accosting him, hat in hand. With something of an effort, Desmond forced himself into coherent observation. The man had a violin case under his arm, and a wild tangle of black locks fell about his ears at odd angles; his face was pinched, his eyes very bright and sharp and erratic.

“It’s a fine gentleman ye are, sir,” was saying the man in an admiring tone. “And a musician, as I can see by the face of you with me eyes shut. Now, then, would ye be refusing a brother musician, as one gentleman to another, a bit matter of a loan? Ye would not, as I can see plainly.”

“Eh?” demanded Desmond. “What’s your name?”

“My name, is it? Well, now, I’ll be tellin’ ye in confidence, between gentlemen, sir, that it’s from a great line I come! It is that, sir, though ye might not believe it to be lookin’ at me here. Michael Terence O’Sullivan, by your leave, sir—”

“Aye,” said Desmond. “That would be the O’Sullivan Beare, now! ’Twas a great man he was and no mistake; but, my lad, if it’s comparing him to the Geraldines—”

“Lord save us!” cried O’Sullivan, starting back. “You’re from the old country?”

“I’m not sure,” said Desmond candidly. “I’m sure of nothing. Somethin’s happened in these parts since this afternoon; an earthquake, likely. Six times have I had the notion of crossin’ the street, and each time there’d come a rattling tram threatening to run the life out o’ me if I budged. Thunder o’ Finn! And look at the sidewalk, with the roll to it!”

“Sure, now I’ll be taking ye home,” said the fiddler insinuatingly. “Then we’ll speak o’ that bit loan on the way.”

“Loan, is it?” repeated Desmond. “Heaven help ye, lad! It’s no loan ye’ll get from me. For so long as me credit is good I’ll buy ye a drink or two—”

“A fine gentleman like you, broke?” gasped O’Sullivan.

“Divil take it, am I to blame if me uncle left me not a shilling?” demanded Desmond with indignation. “But wait! Give me your arm, O’Sullivan Beare, like a good lad, and leave it to me. Is that the band I hear playin’ over beyond at Luneta Park?”

“It is,” returned the other bitterly. “And who’ll give a dime to hear O’Sullivan fiddle, when the band is playin’? They drownded me out, for a fact; drownded me out, they did—”

“An insult!” declared Desmond with severity. “Your arm, me lad! Now hush. Not a word out of ye— not a word! Insult the O’Sullivan Beare, will they? A little brown constabulary band insult the O’Sullivan, and me standing by? Never! N-never! Sir Gerald Fitzjohn de Courcy Desmond will never—”

“Holy Mother!” gasped the fiddler. “Sure, I thought the fine face of ye looked familiar; ’twas pictured in all the papers! But, sir, don’t be interferin’ with the crowd now; let me be takin’ you toward—”

Desmond gripped the man’s arm firmly. “Not a word!” he said. “Hush your blather or I’ll smash that fiddle over your head! Guide me straight now, and mind none o’ those lamp-posts swing at ye as we pass.”

The Luneta was crowded that evening, as usual. The constabulary band was playing from the stand, and along the oval strolled officers and ladies, business men and their families, bowing señors and mantillaed señoritas; brown and white of all degrees made up the gay throng, while the sea breezes lifted the band music in drifting waves across the chatter of tongues.

On the outskirts of the crowd two men occupied a bench, and they were a strange couple. One was a native dressed in the most impeccable evening attire from silk hat to patent leathers; the pearl studs in his shirt were eloquent of wealth. The other man was roughly dressed and was dour of aspect. He pulled on a clay pipe as he talked, and his smooth-shaven features were stern and sour. There was nothing weak about them.

“I tell you, Señor Arevalo,” said this second man, “that I’m done with it, understand? I’ll never run in another load o’ dope for you nor any other man alive. Otherwise, I’m willin’ to oblige. But if ye bring one card aboard I’ll throw ye over the side.”

The Filipino laughed. One guessed at suave strength in his brown, finely chiseled face; one imagined an inward man of steel, finely tempered, like the gold-inlaid steel of the Moros.

“My dear captain,” he said, “I assure you that I shall not smuggle. All I desire is to be taken as a passenger on this trip. Let us be frank! I know that you hesitate because you are to take your owner and his daughter down to Remedios plantation; well, then, I shall not even be seen by them. I love business on the island there, and since you’re sailing tonight it will help me immensely to get off at once. That is all.”

“All right,” said the captain, as though impelled against his better judgment. “For old times’ sake, then. You’d best have your dunnage aboard by midnight, for we’ll sail on the turn o’ the tide. I’ll have to pick up a couple o’ men before then, too.”

“Natives?” queried the other, rising. A hint of eagerness was in his voice.

“No. I want white men, and Lord knows where I’ll get ’em! If it were the old days, now, all fine and good; but with this law an’ order a man never knows what’s what.”

The Filipino laughed softly and disappeared in the crowd. The captain leaned back, sucking at his pipe and watching the bandstand. So it happened that he witnessed a most extraordinary thing.

The bandmaster came to the front of the stand and held up his hand until the crowd fell silent through curiosity.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “Sir Gerald Desmond, of the Royal Flying Corps, has asked to make an announcement regarding a hitherto unknown atrocity of the late war which has come under his observation. I am sure you will all be very glad to hear from so distinguished a gentleman; one who has achieved great fame as an aviator and whose name will be known to many of you.”

As the bandmaster ceased and bowed, the crowd broke into instant applause. Coming to the front of the platform was Desmond. It was observed that he had removed hat and coat, and that he held a second man firmly by the arm. It was also observed that the members of the band seemed fully as puzzled as every one else.

When Desmond bowed, and his flashing smile lighted his aggressive, finely carved features, the applause redoubled. It died down when he raised his hand.

“My friends,” his rich voice carried clearly to the staring throng below, “this is one of the happiest moments of me life, I assure you ’tis so! On this momentous evening it has fallen to me to make right a great wrong that has been done to one of the finest gentlemen under God’s creation, it has that!”

The charming informality of this address was such that a vague suspicion was impressed upon his auditors; but Desmond recaptured them with his smile, and continued.

“Here beside me,” and he jerked forward the rather abashed fiddler, “ye behold a victim, an Irishman like me-self, an artist of the first water! It’s the truth I’m telling you, so listen now. O’Sullivan Beare is the name of him, and any Irishman present will recall the glorious life an’ death of that grand gentleman, who has been playin’ the fiddle all this while in your midst, only to be drowned miserably night after night by the glorious discords of this constabulary band, by whose leave I’m addressing you.”

Desmond paused for breath. The rising storm of laughter died instantly as he proceeded.

“My friends, for the sake o’ fair play, I’m asking you one and all to stand by and see no interference done while this gentleman entertains us. It’s a strugglin’ member of an oppressed race he is, and when ye consider the jealousy which has led the band to be drownin’ him out night after night, while his unhappy country is starvin’ for the ha’pence and dimes which he should be sendin’ home to help beat the Kaiser and establish democracy in the land of Erin— well, it’s all true, anyhow. I have every respect for the Stars an’ Shtripes; in fact, I’m intendin’ to become an American citizen now that me uncle is dead and me without a shilling to me name, but I will—”

Desmond turned indignantly to his companion. “Why the divil don’t ye play? D’ye expect me to stand here blathering all night until ye get tuned up? Play, ye divil! Play, or I’ll smash that fiddle—”

At this point the scandalized bandmaster touched Desmond’s elbow. What he said was lost in the roars of mirth that swept over the Luneta. The situation was perfectly clear to every one by this time, yet so cool and easy was Desmond that to imagine him drunk—

When the bandmaster was through speaking, Desmond took the conductor’s baton from under his arm, lifted the uniformed gentleman by the collar, and with one hand dropped him over the edge of the stand. Then he turned to the bandsmen.

“Now, ye brown divils! Strike up the ‘Wearin’ of the Green,’ and mind ye follow this baton or I’ll murder ye! When me friend here gets into tune, see that ye don’t drown him out. Thunder o’ Finn! Are ye goin’ to play or not?”

The constabulary band banished its grins and seized its instruments. The Luneta was a shrieking, howling mass of joyous humanity, through which the constabulary officers tried vainly to reach the bandstand. And then the band started playing.

Michael Terence O’Sullivan began to enter into the spirit of the occasion. He whipped out fiddle and bow, and with a wild grin on his pinched face fell to scraping away; the brown musicians, such of them as could play for laughing, answered Desmond’s baton with a pianissimo, and for one intoxicating moment O’Sullivan was at the apogee of his ambition.

An instant later a flushed and panting constabulary officer appeared beside Desmond. The latter turned to him, knocked him over the edge of the stand after the conductor, and calmly continued waving his baton. This was too much. The law had been insulted, and the law demanded its victim. After all, the bandsmen were constabulary.

O’Sullivan saw the coming storm. He hastily stowed away his fiddle, tucked the case under his arm, and tried to escape; but, caught in the tide of bandsmen, he stood back to back with Desmond and fought valiantly. The end, of course, would never have been in doubt had not some kindly soul switched off the lights which flooded the bandstand.

There was a riot in the Luneta that night— a riot which became historic. Gerald Desmond was not at all certain of what happened, although he remembered events fairly well up to the moment of concluding his speech. It was certain that when he reached the outskirts of the milling mob he was still hanging to Michael Terence O’Sullivan; and the fiddler, who had received a tap over the head from a bassoon and who was only half conscious, still clung to his beloved fiddle.

“It’s a most successful evening,” observed Desmond vaguely, pausing for breath. “Now, what the divil went with my collar? Upon me soul, I do believe I had a drink too many—”

A dark figure materialized at his elbow.

“Come on, Desmond!” said a voice. “Here’s a cab waiting for you.”

“Good!” responded Sir Desmond. “Though ye’ll have to lend us your arm, for this man hangin’ to me disturbs the street most amazingly. Either he’s drunk, or I am—”

A powerful hand gripped his arm and steadied him forward. A brown constabulary officer came shrieking up to them, but the unseen protector met him with a blow that sent him under a heap of shrubbery.

“Hurry along with you!” growled the unknown.

Sir Gerald Desmond felt himself bundled into a cab, falling in a heap over the protesting Michael Terence and the fiddle case. After this all grew dim.

Order came gradually out of that historic chaos, and the authorities combed the city for Gerald Desmond, who was now a baronet; the Manila Hotel disclaimed all knowledge of him. The fiddler O’Sullivan, a licensed beggar who had once been honorably discharged from the army by reason of tuberculosis, had likewise failed to turn up at his lodgings.

The two men had completely vanished, and naturally no one connected this disappearance with the fact that the inter-island trading schooner San Gregorio had left her berth at the Muelle shortly after midnight, bound for her owner’s plantation on Mindoro Island.

Upon the following day was raging the worst typhoon which had struck the islands in years. An inbound Singapore steamer reported that she had sighted a schooner off Lubang running west before the gale; at the end of a week the San Gregorio was accounted lost. The loss occasioned some comment, for aboard the schooner had been her owner, the wealthy Don Gregorio Salcedo y Montes, and his daughter, Doña Juliana. The presumed widow of Don Gregorio was prostrated by the event.

It was remarked by the authorities that about this time disappeared one Señor Juan Arevalo— somewhat to their relief. Arevalo was a native of great ability, a member of the legislature from Cavite, who had made much money in devious ways. The consumption of opium fell off noticeably after his disappearance, and he left no family to mourn him. So, taken all in all, the authorities were very glad, that he had vanished.

2

The Schooner

THE AGONIES of Gerald Desmond’s awakening to reality were harrowing, but need be lightly dwelt upon. They had much to do with the filthy forecastle of the San Gregorio; with violent seasickness; with huge cockroaches; with brief but tender ministrations from a pinched-faced little man with a hacking cough; and with a terrific visitation from no less a person than Captain Miles Canaughan.

“When I need all hands, I need ’em,” concluded the skipper caustically. “But I’m makin’ some allowance for your condition, my man. So ye have until eight bells to pull up; if you’re not on deck at four o’clock by your wrist watch, Gawd help ye!”

Desmond merely groaned and collapsed in a throe of nausea. Captain Canaughan punctuated his remarks, unwisely, with two hearty kicks in the ribs.

“I pulled you out o’ trouble,” he finished, “so don’t try no shanghaied talk to me. I know ye’re a gentleman, and I mean to make ye work; it’s my guess that you’re a papistical south of Ireland man, for which I’ve no love. So, then, mind your eye!”

By six bells in the afternoon, Desmond knew all there was to know about his situation. The crew numbered six, all of them riffraff white men, none of them Americans. Lying white and weak in his bunk, Desmond heard two of them talking; they had slid below to swallow pannikins of hot coffee in comparative peace.

There was only one mate to the little schooner— a half-caste— famous for his brawn and his knowledge of the islands. Little O’Sullivan was being badly mauled above decks, and the men laughed at mention of the fiddler. Desmond writhed in his bunk as the talk reached him, and cursed his own helpless plight. He was clad in the remnants of his evening attire.

A little time thereafter, Michael Terence O’Sullivan slipped down into the empty fo’c’s’le with two mugs of boiling coffee. He forced one of them on Desmond. The fiddler was blue with cold, and there was a purpling bruise across his cheek.

“Lord help you!” he observed between coughs, dragging his ragged coat about his throat. “Bitter cold outside it is; you in the skipper’s watch, me in the mate’s. Blowin’ the guts out o’ hell, sir; just that!”

Desmond sipped at the steaming fluid, which gave him warmth and life. “What are you coughing for, O’Sullivan?” he asked suddenly.

“T. B., sir,” responded the fiddler with a sharp look. “That’s how I come to be stranded in the islands, worse luck! Discharged from the army, I was.”

“And what the divil are we going to do, aboard this bloody-minded craft?”

“We might do worse than take charge of her ourselves,” and the fiddler laughed with a touch of impudent deviltry. “There’s a lady aft, they say, and a couple o’ fine brown gentlemen. But it’s seasick ye are, sir, and seasick ye’ll stay for three days—”

“Not I,” returned Desmond. “Divil a bit was I ever seasick in me life, lad; it’s the smells and last night’s liquor. Listen, now! How did ye come aboard here? If I remember right, you weren’t drank last night.”

“Somebody had to be lookin’ afther you,” was the response. “Besides, there was the police back yonder—”

“You, O’Sullivan!” roared a billowing, thunderous voice from the hatchway. “Come out o’ that, you rat! Sangre de Dios, I’ll show you something!”

The fiddler made an abrupt dive for his bunk, in which by some miracle his fiddle case still reposed. Feverishly he snapped open the case and slipped something out of it, then turned as the giant bulk of the mate filled the ladder.

“Leave me alone now!” he cried out shrilly. “It’s warnin’ ye I am.”

Gerald Desmond staggered to his feet and stood, clinging to a bunk, before the mate. A brutal dog was this half-caste, hulking and broad-lipped, who looked at Desmond with the glimmerings of Asian cruelty in his eyes.

“So it’s the fine gentleman!” he laughed. “On deck with you!”

“I’m going,” said Desmond, reeling a little. “But, me man, you’re to leave this lad alone, understand? He’s a sick man—”

“On deck, and mind your own business!” roared the mate furiously. “I’ll kill the dirty-dog before I’m through with—”

Desmond forced a blow. Weak as he was, he managed to get himself behind it, and the mate reeled. Then, with a startled oath, the mate swept out his hands and sent Desmond hurtling, head first, into a corner with a crash.

An instant later little O’Sullivan threw up his arm, and the explosion of a pistol filled the forecastle with reeking fumes. The mate, shot squarely between the eyes, lumped himself at the foot of the ladder, a great, dead hulk of flesh.

“There’s more’n one way of fighting,” shrieked O’Sullivan, with a wild laugh.

Desmond rose and wiped blood from his lips. He wasted no time in recriminations or questions; he lashed his sick brain into energy, and faced facts.

The mate was dead. Who, then, was on deck? Not the skipper; the skipper would take charge at eight bells— in less than half an hour. Then why not seize the ship, as the fiddler had suggested?

A laugh reeled from Desmond’s lips as he faced the defiant O’Sullivan.

“Well, it’s done, me lad; now to pay the piper! Have ye another o’ those popguns?” He indicated the cheap little revolver, so small that O’Sullivan’s hand almost concealed it. “I’ve not much use for a gun ordinarily, but at the present moment I’ll admit that—”

“He has one in his coat pocket; he did be smashin’ me with the butt,” cried the fiddler, pointing at the dead man. “What will you be doin’, sir? It’s a hangin’ job for me now—

“For both of us, I’m thinkin’,” said Desmond coolly. He stooped over the mate, and rose with a brutal automatic in his hand. “Who’s going to do the hanging, eh? That’s the question. Now, O’Sullivan, if I had a bit of a drink it might put life into me— ah! Thunder o’ Finn, it’s a magic fiddle ye have there!”

With a grin, O’Sullivan plunged again for his fiddle case, and presently held up a small flask. Desmond took it and drank.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, returning the flask. “This was a case of necessity, lad!”

“And what was last night, then?” queried the other whimsically.

“A case o’ damn foolishness.” Desmond’s smile was shadowy, though cheering. “Now, let’s go. Ye may have to lend me a hand on deck, but I think I can weather it. The skipper’s aft?”

“Aye.” O’Sullivan was eager, wistfully marveling. “You’re goin’ for him?”

“Just that,” Desmond indicated the body of the mate. “It’s hit or be hit, me friend, after this. Make no mistake! We have to hit every mortal head that shows aft; never mind the poor divils for’ard—”

“Will you be waiting, now, a minute?” O’Sullivan caught Desmond’s arm, a quick struggle in his pinched features. “I shot him without thinkin’, sir, but when it comes to goin’ against them aft, and the lady an’ all, why I don’t—”

Desmond comprehended, and, with a sudden wild laugh, clapped the little man on the shoulder.

“Oh, it’s a murdering divil ye thought me, eh? Well, O’Sullivan, or, rather, Michael Terence, I’ve never planned to kill a man in me life, so have no fears. And as for the lady, God bless her sweet face, we’ll take good care of her. Come along with you, before the whisky dies out o’ me and the nausea comes back. I think the clean air will blow me fine an’ strong again,”

He stepped over the mate’s body and went up the ladder. At the deck, he paused, aghast; partly through a gust of weakness that smote him and partly at the sight which met his eyes.

The little schooner, under a scant rag of storm sail, was boring into the western sky. Down upon her out of the south and east was pouring the hurricane— such a storm of wind and rain as almost blew the waves flat, suppressed them into an oily scum of froth and whirling waters, hurled the tiny craft as though from some giant hand. Soon enough the rain would cease, the sea would rise, and the battle begin, but for the moment was comparative respite.

Desmond clawed his way aft along the starboard rail. Three or four of the crew were visible, flattened out in sheltered corners; these eyed him curiously, yet without menace. Behind him followed O’Sullivan, long black locks blowing in the wind. As he progressed, Desmond noted that the schooner was no dirty little island trader, but well appointed. The whaleboats were new and well found. At the galley door the face of a Chinaman appeared for an instant, and almost caused Desmond to halt, for it was the straight-eyed face of a Manchu, and no son of Han.

They were at the after companion now. A single figure stood at the wheel in the stern— a wild, giant statue of a man, locked against the spokes by the following wind. The hatches were ready to be clapped on when it became necessary. With a last glance at the storm wrack in the sky, Desmond fought his way to the ladder and plunged down into peace and obscurity. A moment later the fiddler, panting hard, joined him.

The two men advanced, ignorant where they were to find their prey. As they hesitated, however, a door opened, and the figure of a man lurched out in front of them and pounded at another door.

“Cap’n!” it called. “Oh, cap’n! You’d better open up and—”

Desmond leaned forward, and his arm swept out the automatic butt first. The man dropped without a word; a swarthy, lean, excellently dressed man.

“It ain’t the lady’s father, anyhow,” said O’Sullivan, clawing at the figure. “I seen him with her last night. This one, now—”

He produced an automatic, nodded as though satisfied, and awaited instructions.

Desmond tried the skipper’s door, found it locked. He rapped sharply.

“Who’s there?” sounded the skipper’s harsh tones. “Four bells, eh?”

“Four bells, sir,” responded the fiddler, with a wink to Desmond.

The door opened with a jerk. Desmond stepped in, and his automatic lay under the nose of Captain Canaughan.

“Back and sit down, you!” he commanded simply.

“For the love o’ Heaven!” growled the amazed and disgruntled skipper, falling back. “If it ain’t the popish lad—”

“Papist yerself!” came the fiddler’s whining snarl from behind Desmond. “It’s an honest Orangeman I am, but with no love for a Belfast scut like yerself! Go on, ye Scots tarrier!”

The brawny skipper ostentatiously threw up his hands, but he also threw up one boot. Desmond, however, had been watching for just such a move; he countered the kick with his knee and shin, and Captain Canaughan, uttering a stifled groan, went back against his bunk. He clung there for a moment.

“Bruk my leg, you did!” he said with a grimace of pain.

“Not yet,” and Desmond grinned. “But I will the next time. Shut the door, Michael Terence, and drag that lump o’ clay inside.”

“Look here!” cried out the skipper suddenly. “This is mutiny, d’ye know that? There’s none to take charge of this ship but me—”

“You’re right there, skipper,” said Desmond coolly. “We’ve just shot your mate, and now we’ll shoot you and have done with it.”

For an instant the skipper’s sturdy face blanched. Then, looking Desmond in the eye, he relaxed and sat down on the edge of his bunk.

“I should ha’ known better last night,” he said mournfully. “Oh, have ye killed poor Arevalo, too? Well, no matter. The ship will go down any minute now.”

“Elucidate!” Desmond felt his head beginning to reel again in the closeness of the cabin. “Who’s this Arevalo? Who’s the lady?”

Captain Canaughan elucidated. “And we’re driving along with no one to handle the ship, if you’ve killed the mate,” he concluded sourly.

“He’s a pretty boy,” said Desmond, inspecting the Filipino. “Michael Terence! Call two of the men from above and have him carried for’ard. Let him take a hand at the work.”

The fiddler grinned and departed. Canaughan uttered a growling protest.

“Look here! This ain’t legal! You’ll hang for this killin’—”

“Legal my eye!” said Desmond cheerfully. “What land are we heading for?”

The skipper glanced at the telltale. “Headin’ for Point Galera and Mindoro, unless we’re driftin’ much. In an hour it’ll be blowin’ the sticks out of her. We’ll need the engine to get into the lee o’ Lubang or Cape Calavite. Then we’ll fetch Mamburu well enough.”

“In other words, we’re heading south?” Desmond frowned as if puzzled. “Well, will you pass me your word to take my orders and to leave me and O’Sullivan unmolested?”

“I will not,” returned Canaughan promptly. “I’ve me duty to the owners to consider, and I’m a righteous man. Ye can’t escape sea law, Desmond; a little craft like this even is harried down most amazing if there’s a thing wrong. That murder will hang ye. It does all very well in pirate stories, but this is no book, mind. All this sort o’ thing—”

“You don’t compliment my brains, but I’ll surprise you there, skipper,” replied Desmond. A knock sounded at the door. “Come in!”

O’Sullivan and the two men appeared. Desmond cocked his eye at the skipper.

“Put Arevalo for’ard,” he said softly, “and in five minutes ye can go on deck free and unharmed. Otherwise—” He gestured with the weapon in his hand.

“Carry that man for’ard,” ordered the skipper. “Empty a bucket over him.”

The two men departed, bearing the limp figure of Arevalo between them, swinging to the lurch of the vessel.

“I’ve not the heart to be shooting ye, skipper,” said Desmond simply. “Also, I’m in a bad way. So get out o’ here, with me blessing, and don’t come back. Stay above.”

Canaughan started. “Don’t come back! And what does that mean, then?”

“What it says. Have ye a gun on your person?”

“No.” The skipper’s eye rolled longingly toward a desk in the corner.

“Then go ahead; I’m thinking that we have more or less of a monopoly on the firearms aboard. Show the skipper out, Michael Terence, and mind his boot!”

“Mutiny, this is; rank mutiny!” said the skipper hoarsely, his face purpling. “Ye’ll hang for it, I warn ye!”

“Ah, but who’s to do the hanging?” Desmond laughed, and gestured toward the door. “You’ll not be needing your cozy cabin, skipper, dear; if you’ll take my advice, you’ll get those hatches battened down in a hurry. One good following sea will sink this walnut shell of a ship. So run up, like a good fellow!”

A torrid exclamation, which did not partake of righteousness, fell from Captain Canaughan as the grinning fiddler opened the door and bowed mockingly; then the skipper was gone.

Desmond relaxed in the bunk.

“Lock the door, Michael Terence, and make sure o’ the bolts,” he said. “Help yourself to the skipper’s clothing, lad, and get warm. Wake me in a couple of hours, but not before, on the life of you! And no whisky, lad; we’re done with that, eh?”

“But I’ve left me fiddle up for’ard!” protested O’Sullivan fiercely, his eyes widening with dismay. “Oh mhuire as truagh! Me old fiddle, that I’d not be losin’ for a mint o’ money—”

“Leave it be, lad,” said Desmond drowsily. “They’ll batten on the hatches now, and the fiddle will be safe, I’ll warrant you. In two hours, mind, I’ll—”

He rolled back in the bunk. O’Sullivan locked and bolted the door.

3

Arevalo Takes Charge

WHEN CAPTAIN Miles Canaughan got on deck he found himself confronted by a situation entirely out of his experience and which laid him completely aback.

For one thing, the San Gregorio was not at all on the course indicated by the telltale in his cabin; she was driving before the wind, and she was driving almost due west by three-quarters south. The mate had given these orders four hours previously when the skipper had gone below, said the helmsman— a great Norseman named Balderson. The mate, however, was dead, and no one else could explain these orders.

For another thing, the schooner carried an auxiliary gasoline engine, and when Mr. Canaughan ordered this started he found it completely and efficiently smashed. What was worse, the skipper’s vigilant eye presently discovered that the small launch, carried forward in place of one of the boats, possessed a tarpaulin which was flapping. The lashings of the tarp had been cut, and the launch’s engine had also been put beautifully out of commission.

Someone had wrecked the two engines, and someone had interfered with the telltale. Who was guilty and why? There was no answer. The men, all island riffraff with the exception of Balderson, protested absolute innocence and ignorance, and Canaughan was constrained to believe them. The mate was obviously guilty of setting a false course, and therefore must be to blame for the whole business.

Bewildered, seeing himself able to blame Desmond for only a part of his own helpless position, with the hurricane wallowing down and the schooner going to the devil, the skipper set himself to the job of saving his ship. As the sea was rising fast, he fell to work making a sea anchor, which would hold the San Gregorio head to the wind and would let her ride out the night. She seemed to be driving along the track of Singapore traffic, so Captain Canaughan got out his flags, hoisted NC, and swore at his men to move lively.

At this juncture the dripping figure of Juan Arevalo approached him with difficulty.

“Who hit me?” demanded the Filipino, holding one hand to his injured head.

The skipper beckoned him into the shelter of the deckhouse, and briefly shouted that two of the crew had mutinied and were even now snugly ensconced in the skipper’s cabin. Juan Arevalo had already seen the mate’s body slipped over the rail, just before the fo’c’s’le hatch was battened down; but now he caught Canaughan’s arm and laid his lips to the skipper’s ear. His face, livid under its swarthy hue, worked desperately.

“I’ve got to get below in a hurry!” he shouted.

The skipper grinned in a sneer. “Stay where y’are,” he bawled. “No time to fool with ye now. Got to—”

Arevalo’s keen features contorted in a sudden passion of anger.

“I said I was going below!” he repeated furiously. “You fool, everything may be done by this time— Juliana—”

Canaughan gave him a sharp look “What d’ye mean? Ye promised me there’d be no smuggling this trip. Well, anyhow, you stay here. We’ll be needing you soon enough.”

A frightful cry broke from Arevalo. He shouted at two of the men, working a few feet away. At his call, they leaped up. Without warning, Arevalo swung his fist against the face of the incredulous skipper.

Canaughan, with a bellow of rage, rushed for the Filipino, but his two men got in the way. One of them flung himself at Canaughan’s legs, the other whacked the skipper over the head with a club.

The skipper had looked for no such mutinous play as this. The treachery caught him unawares, and he sprawled senseless on the deck before he quite knew what had happened. Arevalo searched him for a weapon, but vainly, and leaped up with a stormy fury in his keen, handsome features.

“Throw him below, forward!” he ordered. “And get the battens off the after companion. I’ll have to go down.”

“Wait!” One of the men caught at his arm, with a glance aft. “Balderson ain’t in on the deal. We ain’t had time to fix him.”

Arevalo glanced at the helmsman, then laughed grimly. “Go and cut the ropes from the wheel. He’ll stay there, then, for if he left the helm the schooner would broach and go under. I’ll be back and interview Balderson before you get the sea anchor out, sabe?”

Two more of the men were called. The body of Captain Canaughan was carried for’ard while Arevalo ran with the other two men to the after companion as though some furious impulse spurred him to get below.

Balderson, his Viking figure straining at the helm, bellowed to the other men in frantic fury; for one of them had cut the ropes, and leave the wheel now he dared not. They laughed at him, yet in their laughter was fear of the skies and sea, dread in the shaking rigging above them, the weak confusion of uncaptained men. Balderson roared to close the hatches again, but they ignored him, for Arevalo had gone below aft, and as they waited, circling about Balderson at the helm, they drew gold from their pockets and grinned at the Norseman. And Balderson, being no fool, fell silent and waited.

So the ship drove, open to the seas, leaderless, while ever the thunderous masses of water piled up astern and swept below, upheaving the careening schooner as they tossed her into the heavens, foaming away again ahead of her, the tiny rag of storm sail thrusting her onward like a wild thing.

Presently the torso of Juan Arevalo rose from the after companionway and he beckoned the nearest men. His face was deathly white, and his dark eyes blazed with strange fires. Now, as always, these island ruffians stood in awe of his keen intellect and the infernal energy that drove him like some inward lash.

“Send Balderson to me!” he shouted as they bent closer. His eyes darted to windward, searched the sky and sea; turning, he swept the horizon. Then he dropped into the passage below and waited, a revolver in his hand. A moment later Balderson, relieved from the helm, awkwardly swung through the opening and half fell down the ladder as a hissing comber swept the vessel high and twisted her against the helm.

“Stand quiet, you!” said Arevalo, covering the big man. Down here, out of the smothering wind, one could speak and be heard. “I had no chance to see you last night. Do you want to earn five hundred, gold, with a hundred down in advance? Speak quickly.”

The Norseman wiped the brine from his beard, looked into the revolver’s mouth, and assented:

“Sure.”

“The mate was in with me,” said Arevalo, picking his English word carefully. “But he was killed. So we must keep the skipper until later to navigate. You will see that he is tied up and stowed away in the forecastle, eh?”

“Sure,” and Balderson nodded heavily. Then he grinned a little. “I’m glad the mate is gone. But the owner, Señor Salcedo?”

A slight tremor seemed to pass over Arevalo’s countenance; a rippling quiver, as though somewhere inside of him the steel soul had buckled ever so little. Then he smiled thinly.

“The don is dead,” he said with quiet precision. “No, I didn’t do it; ’twas those two men who killed the mate. They’re barricaded in the captain’s cabin now, and they can stay there for a while; we’ll batten the hatches presently. They must have stunk him out— shoved some Chinese punk under his door. It killed him. Doña Juliana is unconscious and sick, but safe.”

Balderson looked steadily at the speaker for a moment.

“That’s why you were in such a hell of a hurry to get below, huh?” he said, frowning in ponderous concentration. “You were afraid she would be killed, too. Huh!”

Arevalo’s handsome features again showed that indefinable tremor. He had not thought that Balderson would so quickly perceive the truth. But he did not attempt further lies.

“Yes,” he said with his deadly air of quiet, “yes, you’re right; but I’m going to keep the cap’n’s log— and those other two men did it. Understand?”

Balderson scratched his head. Slow admiration dawned in his blue eyes.

“The log? Then ye mean to shove along?”

“Of course.” Arevalo showed impatience. “Don’t you understand that everything has to be proper? They’re responsible for the mate; I’ll make them responsible for everything else, including the broken engines.”

“And— Doña Juliana?”

“Marries me when we pick up the islands.”

Again Balderson scratched his head. “Can’t keep it quiet,” he said heavily. “Too many in it. Me and the other five men.”

Arevalo smiled. His teeth were very white and even.

“I’m telling you. They won’t know the rest; they’re afraid of me, and they’ll keep quiet. Besides, they put the cap’n below, and they’ll be quick enough to let the two in the cabin be blamed, and ask no questions.”

Balderson nodded with ponderous unraveling of thought.

“Seems all right. Discharge all hands at Mindoro, huh, and get ’em shipped out on the first ship, huh? All right. We know you got the brains, Arevalo. But what’s the idea of runnin’ this course? This wind, now; she’s bad.”

“The storm will suit us well enough,” returned Arevalo. “I have the chart, and the mate picked out the course. If the wind falls by tomorrow noon— and it will fall; this blow is a quick puff— we’ll be all right. Sure, there’s a reason! Leave it to me. One thousand extra to all hands if everything goes off well.”

The Norseman’s frown cleared. “That’s good. Good! Huh?”

“It ought to be. Send down two men to bring up Señor Salcedo; tell them he was killed by those two devils down here. Then we’ll batten down everything.”

“And Doña Juliana?”

“I’ll lock her in her cabin. She’s too sick to bother us until night, anyway. We can come down tonight and put the two men in irons if they give trouble, then make her comfortable. Leave that to me.”

“You got brains, huh?” said Balderson admiringly, and held out his big hand. “Shake!”

Smiling, Arevalo shook hands with him; then the Norseman leaped to the deck above and swung his arm to the nearest of the men. But Arevalo, standing under the ladder below, did not see a dark figure that slipped off into the shadows of the passage, nor did he detect the opening and shutting of the captain’s cabin door.

Michael Terence O’Sullivan sidled into the cabin, shut, locked, and bolted the door, and then dropped into a corner and propped himself against the pitch of the schooner. He produced a dirty handkerchief and wiped his face— and again. The cold sweat was breaking out upon him endlessly, and cowardice was wringing his soul. Since the days when the white plague had weakened him and stripped him of his own, O’Sullivan had come to calling himself a coward. And there was a fleck of red on his lips as he held down a cough.

He had stolen out, meaning to have a try for that beloved fiddle of his, and he had all but walked upon Arevalo, standing there below the companion ladder. And he had heard the conversation with Balderson. As a result, O’Sullivan was now sweating for his skin, and for the skin of Gerald Desmond, who was fast asleep and snoring. With a final swipe at his brow, the fiddler pulled himself erect.

“God help us all!” he said softly, with a sob in his throat that told the words for a prayer. Outside, he could hear a trampling of feet in the passage. He went to the desk in the corner and sat there. Presently he opened up the desk and began to go through it systematically. But he did not wake Desmond, for the time was far from up that Desmond had set. After he had rifled the skipper’s desk to his satisfaction, discovering nothing more lootable than thirty dollars in American bills, O’Sullivan went to the passage door and, after listening a moment, opened it. Outside, all was dark. Arevalo and his men had gone. The hatches were on fast. Already there was a perceptible difference in the movement of the ship. She no longer rose like a cork to the waves, but from the bows came heavy crashes; the sea anchor was out, and now she was sullenly heading into the wind and welter while the seas smashed into her bows and swept her foredeck.

“Arevalo is facin’ the work of it, anyhow,” muttered O’Sullivan, shaking his head. “A bad one, he is! All this is crazy man’s work, yet the lad is as cool-blooded about it as a Scot! Aye, he’s a bad one, I’m thinkin’.”

Wrinkling up his nose at a heavy, oppressive odor, the fiddler set to work exploring the cabins. Nothing rewarded his search until he came to the stern cabin, and the door of this was locked; the key was in the lock, so he turned it and stepped inside.

He realized that this entire after end of the cabin space had been converted into an apartment for the owner’s use. The first cabin had no doubt been that of Señor Salcedo; it was heavy with a sickening sweet and oppressive scent, the meaning of which had been made plain to O’Sullivan by the conversation between Arevalo and Balderson. Although the furnishings of this cabin were luxurious, the fiddler hastened on to the interior chamber, a large and beautiful cabin plump in the schooner’s stern. That this had been the original captain’s cabin was evidenced by the trapdoor in the floor, leading down into the run where the ship’s cabin stores were kept. A curtained bed was in the corner, screwed to the floor.

The fiddler had outfitted himself with warm clothes from the skipper’s cabin, and also with a sea cap. Now, as he advanced toward the bed, he removed his cap, and was, despite the lack of observers, quite obviously embarrassed. He drew aside the curtains of the bed and blushed deeply, but his lips tightened with determination.

“Que quiere?” demanded a faint voice; then, in English and with feminine alarm. “Who are you? What are you doing here—”

One must admit candidly that few men, thus placed at the bedside of a lady reared in the most severe Castellan tradition, and finding themselves confronted by the alarm and indignant anger of that lady, could have justified their intrusion without a single word. Michael Terence O’Sullivan, it is true, was too overcome to speak; but he could smile, and he did smile. And in the little pinched face of him, in the manner of his smile, in the wild tangle of hair and the piercing, shrewd black eyes, there was a transfigurement. It is like that when some men smile. All the outward, world-disfigured body of them is forgotten, and the soul shows. The fiddler had none of the cheerful deviltry of Desmond’s laughter, but in his smiling face was something greater and more powerful— a wistful coercion, a bashful, appealing tenderness.

“How did you get in here?” demanded Doña Juliana more quietly.

“Sure, lady, I walked,” said O’Sullivan. “Now don’t be troubling the sweet heart of you by fearin’ me; but if ye’ll listen a bit I’ll have somethin’ to tell ye. Mhuire as truagh, but it’s sorry I am to be harm’ such a story to tell yourself! It’s a sorry man I am, to be bringin’ the tears to the sweet face of you, lady—”

“Are you a madman or a fool?” exclaimed the lady, but her voice, despite her words, was frightened by the ominous tone of O’Sullivan.

“Oh,” cried the fiddler, “it’s a lady of the fairy folk ye are! Well, my heart is broke for ye, but if ye must have the truth—”

And he told her of all that Arevalo had done.

Desmond wakened, meantime, to find darkness come down on the cabin, and the door swinging ajar. He crawled out of the bunk and stretched himself, then observed that he was alone. Also he was ravenously hungry, and the sickness had left him.

There was a scraping at the door, and O’Sullivan entered.

“Oh, it’s up you are, sir!” The fiddler closed the door behind him.

“Let’s have a light and some grab,” exclaimed Desmond. “If—”

“Whist, now! Let me be tellin’ you everything first,” broke in the other hurriedly. “The lady is dressing herself, bless the sweet face of her, as well as she can for the tears, and she bows all about us and about her poor father bein’ kilt in his sleep by that murderous Arevalo, bad luck to him! And about the poor cap’n bein’ kilt, and—”

“Thunder o’ Finn!” exclaimed Desmond, rubbing his eyes. “What’s all this?”

“It’s what I’m tryin’ to tell you, sir, it ye’ll give me half a chance. Then we’ll go into the big cabin yonder and maybe find a bit o’ grub, and whilst ye entertain the lady I’ll maybe have a try for me poor old fiddle—”

“Stop it!” ordered Desmond desperately. “Ye wild divil, will ye begin at the start and tell me what’s happened? How long have I slept?”

“A bit over two hours, maybe more,” returned O’Sullivan. “Now here ’tis, sir. I had a notion to find me fiddle again, but at the companion I saw Arevalo—”

He recounted all that he had overheard, and followed it up by his conversation with Doña Juliana.

“The sweet face of her ’u’d bring tears to your throat,” he concluded earnestly. “And if we could be occupyin’ them cabins our two selves we’d have more room, besides all bein’ together. And when Arevalo comes, as he said he’d be comin’ toward night—”

“We’ll be there, eh?” struck in Desmond.

“You will be,” countered the other, “but I’ll be waitin’ to pop out on deck and maybe get that fiddle o’ mine. I’m tellin’ you the truth, sir, it’s mortal hard to think o’ that sweet fiddle lyin’ for’ard and maybe broke or hurt—”

“Go on with you!” and Desmond laughed as he pushed the fiddler toward the door. “You have the right idea, Michael Terence! Let’s get on in there, and light a lamp or two. We’ll take care of Doña Juliana, and don’t worry your head about Arevalo saddling any of his dirty work on us. Come on!”

Crossing to the rear cabin, Desmond lighted the big lamp slung in gimbals, and sniffed the heavy-sweet air as he glanced around. To one side were two bunks against the wall. A desk, a small bookcase, a framed painting of a buxom and half-veiled lady, doubtless Señora Salcedo; a cupboard for clothes, a washstand; nothing else. A port had been hooked open, and flying spray had wet the wall.

Desmond went to the desk and opened it. By the confusion he guessed that Arevalo had been before him; however, a small box of cheroots remained, and into this he dug. As he lighted one he was conscious that the door to the inner cabin had opened. He turned, to meet Juliana Salcedo y Monies. And amazement grew within him.

4

Canaughan Bargains

GERALD DESMOND had as much knowledge of women as the next man, and was always willing to learn more. As he looked at Juliana Salcedo he realized that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen; exotically beautiful, yet marked with the golden hair and gray eye of the purest Spanish blood. Her gown of palest green island silk accentuated her high coloring, the rich curves of cheek and arm and figure. And, withal, she seemed to be entirely poised.

“This,” stammered Michael Terence, “this is the Desmond, ma’am, of whom I was speakin’.”

Desmond set his cap on the desk and bowed.

“If I were you, madam,” he said a gay smile deepening the humorous wrinkles about his level eyes, “I’d sit down. Every once in so often we get thumped— and while I’d love to be helpin’ you out of the corner I’d hate to see you thrown there. You’re Doña Juliana?”

“Yes,” she said quietly, with only the dark circles about her eyes to tell of grief and illness. She took the chair which O’Sullivan shoved forward. Under the quiet scrutiny of her gray eyes, Desmond felt startled; their self-possession, after all she had just learned, was amazing.

Desmond knew nothing of the pure Spanish breed, cloistered apart from the world in a narrow cell of straight-laced prudery, with fires deeply repressed yet capable of volcanic eruptions. At the moment, indeed, it seemed to him that this girl, for all her amazing beauty, was like an icicle. Out of pity and warm impulse he resolved to thaw the icicle.

“Thunder o’ Finn!” he swore to himself. “What a lovely job for ye, Gerald!”

Juliana, when she had finished her scrutiny of his features, nodded slightly as though reassured by the man.

“This,” she said evenly, “is a very unfortunate situation, sir. You can readily see that it is difficult for me. Mr. O’Sullivan has explained everything, and it seems that he and you must occupy this cabin.”

“To be sure,” returned Desmond unconcernedly. “Michael Terence, me lad! Go into the lady’s cabin and lift the trap in the floor. Ye’ll find the cabin stores stowed below, I’m thinking. Get up something for dinner, and Miss Juliana will fix up a bit to eat for us.”

O’Sullivan obeyed. The gray eyes of Doña Juliana flashed, as though in swift resentment. Desmond had entirely ignored the compromising features of the situation, and yet his gay smile was very infectious.

“I am not accustomed to cooking for—” she began, but Desmond waved his hand and broke in with a disconcerting air of careless ease.

“Oh, ye’ll get used to it, believe me, and meantime we’ll make the best of it,” he said, puffing his cheroot alight. “D’ye— see, Miss Juliana, there’s just the three of us; and we have to stick together, each one of us doing our bit. I happen to have a natural longing to save my own neck, so I’m in command. Now, then, what about this man Arevalo? Have ye any idea why he should have murdered your poor father? Why is he workin’ hand in glove with the mate o’ this ship, after killin’ Cap’n Canaughan? What game is he up to, can ye tell me?”

The girl shook her head, sudden tears in her eyes. Mention of her dead father had conquered her pride.

“I— I don’t know,” she answered, faltering. “Some time ago he asked for my hand, but my father laughed at him; he is only a Filipino, you know. My father had business dealings with him, but I’m sure did not expect him aboard here. He was not invited.”

Desmond chuckled. Evidently Don Gregorio had considered Filipinos from the old standpoint.

Inside of five minutes, Doña Juliana was appreciably thawing beneath the sun of Desmond’s cheerful insouciance. With every other word he brought the flame of resentment to her gray eyes, shattering her traditions and ignoring her prejudices; yet so subtly commanding was his humor, so completely did he take things for granted, that she could say nothing. To check this impulsive person was quite beyond her. Indeed, when O’Sullivan returned, Desmond was gently patting Doña Juliana’s hand, and he leaped up to help the fiddler with such an entire lack of confusion that before the girl could find the proper rebuke the occasion was gone.

“It’s a jewel of a larder down there,” observed O’Sullivan, as tins and packages were opened and the desk cleaned off to serve as table. “If it wasn’t for me fiddle, now—”

“Leave me,” commanded Desmond. “I’ll get the fiddle presently. Here, Miss Juliana,” and he pressed a package of biscuit into the girl’s hands, “open these while I get the top out o’ this meat tin, and we’ll be ready.”

Because he evidently expected her to do it, Juliana repressed her indignation and obeyed. Then, sweeping aside her protests, Desmond forced her to eat something.

However, Desmond was thinking less of Juliana than of Arevalo, whom he rightly estimated as a hard nut to crack. He found that the man’s presence and activities were as much of a mystery to Juliana as to himself.

“It appears that he’s done for the skipper,” observed Desmond, feeling quite himself after the hurried meal, “and it’s certain that he murdered your father, Miss Juliana, with his heathenish fumes. There must be some purpose in what he’s doing— but what’s the purpose? A man of his position and abilities would not try such a wild game without reason. Of course, Miss Juliana, he might be intendin’ to run away with you—”

“With me?” she broke forth angrily. “Oh, if I had a weapon—”

“Well, it’s no insult that he’d be wantin’ to put the comether on you; there’s many a man would want the same. But it’s hardly reason enough for all the wild divil has done,” said Desmond coolly. “There’s something big back of it. What it is I can’t guess, but well find out soon enough. By the way the old girl is easin’ into the seas the storm is blowing itself out. Michael Terence, me lad! Run and stick your black head out o’ the stern windows and tell me if there’s much overhang from the quarterdeck, like a good boy!”

“The stern windows?” echoed Doña Juliana in surprise. “Why, they’re shuttered with iron from outside! I remember my father closed the shutters early this morning.”

“Good enough,” and Desmond nodded to the hesitating fiddler. “Run along with ye, me lad, and open the shutters before ye stick that head outside.”

With a grin the fiddler vanished into the adjoining cabin. Doña Juliana gazed at Desmond, puzzled alarm evident in her eyes.

“Please tell me what you mean, Mr. Desmond?”

“I’ve got to go for’ard to get the lad’s fiddle,” returned Desmond confidently. “Ye see, he forgot and left it in the forecastle. Since I can’t go by way o’ the hatches, I’ll have to crawl up over the stern and—”

“Dios!” ejaculated the girl, staring at him. “But that is madness! For a fiddle—”

“Oh, this is a particular fiddle,” rejoined Desmond with his gay laugh. “It’d break the poor lad’s heart, yonder, to lose the instrument o’ torture. But the seas are going down fast; and since we’re headed into the wind, the stern will be sheltered.”

“Yes, but Arevalo and the men are corning down here!”

“Sure; and while they’re here I’ll be gettin’ the fiddle. Isn’t that the height of logic, now?”

“But— but what will I do if they come and break in?” cried the girl desperately.

“Do nothing, Miss Juliana, and let Michael Terence do the doing. Thunder o’ Finn! If ye’d seen the beautiful way he shot the mate it would’ve done your sweet heart good! The pity is we didn’t know all the ins and outs of this business when we knocked Arevalo on the head; that was a mortal bad error. Ah, there’s the minstrel boy now! How goes it?”

“Grand an’ fine, sir,” responded O’Sullivan, who had doused the light of the after cabin before opening the shuttered stern windows. “Sure, there’s no overhang at all to speak of, except maybe a bit that will give ye a twist or two gettin’ over at the top—”

Desmond rose and pressed out the glowing end of the cheroot he had lighted.

“Then I leave the lady in your hands, Michael Terence. If anyone comes to the door, shoot first and talk afterward— and Heaven bless ye if the bullet hits Arevalo!”

“Supposin’ they break down the door?” suggested the fiddler.

“Then use your own judgment.” Desmond seized the hand of Juliana and pressed it warmly, then started for the after cabin. “Mind now!” he flung over his shoulder. “Use the automatic ye took from Arevalo; it’ll put a bullet through these narra-wood doors like paper!”

He was gone into the darkness, the gaze of Juliana following him in troubled uncertainty.

BESIDE her curtained bed, Desmond found the window which O’Sullivan had opened, large catches keeping the iron shutters from banging. The ocean was a smother of blackness, but by the white lines of foam Desmond could see that there was no danger of the water flooding into the cabin, unless the cable binding the sea anchor should part. Toward the horizon, a faint rift of moonlight was piercing the heavens, and Desmond rightly imagined that the storm was blowing itself out.

After some time he was able to make out the line of quarterdeck rail above. He gave a grunt of satisfaction, and thrust himself out upon the window ledge, perching precariously as he clutched upward. His fingers gripped one of the struts supporting the rail, and with a heave he pulled himself upward. A minute afterward he crouched near the loosely lashed wheel.

He saw immediately that the deck was deserted hereabouts, and he started forward, only to come to a pause as a thin pencil of light stabbed the darkness ahead. It was the galley door, opening a few inches to the roll of the ship. Again it opened, more widely, and Desmond had a glimpse of Arevalo standing inside, talking with the Manchu cook. Then Arevalo came out, and sent a shout forward, which was answered by the bellow of Balderson.

Barely in time, Desmond flung himself prostrate beside the deckhouse as the men came aft. It was evident that he had chosen his time well for the attempt, since Arevalo and the six men halted at the battened hatch of the after companionway, and began to strip off the battens. The yellow cook had joined the others.

“Not a drop o’ water over the bow this half hour,” said the ponderous voice of Balderson. “When we get this done, we can drop the port watch below, huh? I’ll keep the deck until midnight, Mr. Arevalo—” and the wind blew the rest away in a sudden gust.

Desmond did not wait to hear more, but edged forward until confident that he would not be seen, then leaped to his feet and ran for the forecastle hatchway. In another moment he was bending over the tarpaulin, his unaccustomed hands working at the cleats, battens, and wedges. It was a small hatch, and when he had the tarp removed he had no difficulty in lifting and throwing over the cover.

Pausing only to make sure that he had not been observed and followed, Desmond started down into the black hole; a lurch of the ship threw him from the ladder, and he fell cursing upon a soft heap that squirmed beneath him but made no sound as he struck.

Startled beyond words by this unexpected encounter, knowing that a man lay there beside him, Desmond reached out with throttling grip— only to realize that the man was bound and gagged. He fumbled in his pocket and found a match.

“Thunder o’ Finn!” he muttered, twirling out the flame as he recognized the figure. “Canaughan, upon me word! And I thought that murdering divil had killed ye. Here, let me ease your fat mouth o’ that gag, skipper, and mind ye don’t bite my fingers.”

After an instant, a torrent of sustained but husky blasphemy apprised him that the skipper had been rid of the gag.

“Listen, now!” exclaimed Desmond quickly. “No noise, or we’re both of us trapped here! Juliana is safe, although Arevalo murdered the don in some stinkin’ fashion, and we thought he’d done for you, too.”

“Let loose my hands an’ feet!” rasped the hoarse skipper strainingly.

“Not yet, me bucko,” and Desmond grinned in the darkness. “I’ve a few things to say—”

“Ye confounded ass!” came the retort. “Do you know we’ve been drifting out into the China Sea, that the engines are bruk, that—”

“I know that your friend Arevalo is up to some diviltry,” said Desmond, reaching into the corner bunk and securing O’Sullivan’s fiddle case. “What is it, d’ye know?”

“No! But if you don’t cut me loose, ye blasted and bedamned papist, I’ll knock your—”

“You’ll stay right here, eh? Exactly. Now, skipper, dear, let me impress upon your blighted brains that we’re in one hell of a tight place. From what we’ve learned, Arevalo and your gentlemanly mate were in partnership, and now Arevalo is in command o’ things. But I’m in command o’ the two after cabins, with all the cabin stores and a lot o’ bottled spring water; and we’re quite comfortable, thank you.

“Stop your cursing and listen, ye righteous Belfast bloater! If I leave ye here, Mr. Arevalo means to finish you off proper; and unless ye promise to show the light o’ reason, I’ll leave ye here. I don’t want an obstreperous fool like you spoilin’ me plans. This situation demands delicacy and brains, neither of which you own. I don’t like you, and you don’t like me; but if ye pass your word to take orders from me I’ll cut ye loose.”

“I’ll see ye damned first!” hoarsely returned the skipper.

“Then good night to ye, and pleasant dreams,” said Desmond, starting for the ladder. “I’ll have the ship in charge by tomorrow night, but I’m afraid ye’ll not benefit by it, poor soul!”

“Hold on!” muttered the skipper hastily. “Can’t ye see that I’ll agree?”

“And no trouble from ye until we set foot ashore?”

“Not a bit— but I’ll wipe your damned face off the map when we do!”

“It’ll give me pleasure to reciprocate,” said Desmond, returning. “I’ll take me knife to these lines— heavens, but they’ve lashed ye tight! I don’t see why they were so afraid of you, when a native and a bunch of island scum could knock ye off your own quarterdeck.”

The skipper uttered furious but inarticulate oaths, and staggered to his feet.

“Give me your arm when we get up,” he said at last. “It’s a bad crack over the skull I got. Where are the devils?”

Desmond explained the situation. Despite his weak and battered body, Canaughan was all for descending the after companion and catching Arevalo’s gang in the rear, but this Desmond refused to countenance.

“It does ye credit,” he observed with a mild sarcasm that infuriated Canaughan anew, “but ’twill not do, skipper, dear. I’m none too good on my pins, nor are you, at present. Besides, why not let Arevalo have the ship a while, and see what he’s up to? Let him have her; let him work out his guts savin’ her, and when fine weather comes we’ll take her from him like that!”

“Ye seem mighty confident,” returned the other.

“I was never knocked in the head by me own men,” said Desmond, chuckling.

The skipper said something under his breath, and added: “Let’s go, then,” in a tone of suppressed emotion.

As the two men gained the deck, they heard the muffled report of a shot come from aft, followed by a chorus of yells, then silence.

“More lively, now!” commanded Desmond sharply. “We’ll have the divil’s own time goin’ back the way I came. Where’ll I find a bit o’ loose line?”

Canaughan indicated a line, and Desmond seized the coil in passing.

At the after companion they heard a rumble of voices from below, but did not pause. As Desmond had thought, it proved no easy task to regain the stern window from the deck. The line was passed over the stern rail, and Desmond swung himself down first. Aided by the swing of the ship, he managed to hook a foot inside the window, and then let the line swing out until Canaughan had followed him, when he pulled in the skipper.

“All serene,” said Desmond, landing Canaughan softly. “You pull the line after you, so they’ll not be guessing how you got away, and where.”

He hastened into the lighted cabin, where he found O’Sullivan standing, automatic in hand. Juliana was still sitting as he had left her, staring at the door, whose shattered panel bore witness to the fiddler’s shot.

“What’s doing?” demanded Desmond. “Here’s your fiddle, and the skipper’s coming.”

“Glory be!” exclaimed the fiddler. “They’ve gone, sir.”

“Gone? You’re sure?”

“Aye. We heard ’em say something about waiting until the Chang Yan showed up, when everything would be all right.”

“What the divil!”

A cry of relief broke from Juliana as the sturdy skipper appeared and shook hands. Canaughan, however, could throw no light upon the mystery of the Chang Yan; he had never heard of any such craft, he vowed.

“Well, let be,” said Desmond. “So long as they’ve gone we can recuperate in peace. Tomorrow I’ll set me brains to work, and we’ll consider the matter o’ taking over the ship. Did ye get Arevalo, Michael Terence?”

“I did not, sir,” rejoined the fiddler mournfully. “I got somebody, but not him, more’s the pity!”

“Better luck next time, then,” and Desmond took a cheroot. “Skipper, will ye have a bite of supper? Then Michael Terence will play us a tune, maybe, and we’ll have a drink to our good luck, and go to sleep. There’s but two bunks for the three of us, but we’ll manage.”

“Arevalo has something up his sleeve,” said the skipper dourly. “And we’re not headin’ south at all, but drivin’ west. Everybody’s gone mad, I’m thinking! What’s it all mean?”

“Cheer up, I’m perfectly sane,” and Desmond laughed. “And mind, skipper, that you’ve passed your word to be a righteous man!”

Canaughan gave him an eloquent look, and rubbed his cracked sconce.

“Wait till we get ashore, that’s all!” he said grimly. “Just wait!”

5

The “Chang Yan”

WHEN ROSEMONDE BURLEY, becoming impatient with the lack of shipping, took passage from Saigon on the unspeakably vile Chinese junk Chang Yan, officialdom was scandalized. But the imperturbable Rosemonde, with her widow’s weeds and her Croix de Guerre, was not a person to be interfered with. Rather, they decided mournfully, she was a person to be married— alas!

“If I am to have charge of a nursing station at Ben Ho, up the coast,” she declared, “I am not going to rot in Saigon mes amis! This junk is going there. Voila! You will not send me, therefore I go. Unsafe? Bah! After my brave American was killed at Chateau-Thierry did I not drive an ambulance at the front? Did not Monsieur le President himself decorate me with the Cross? Bah! I’ll snap my fingers at those yellow men if they say two words to me! And I can use an automatic pistol, eh? Assuredly!”

She simply refused to be interfered with. Everyone at Saigon knew her sad and glorious story— how she had married an American, an officer among the first in France; how he had fallen but a few weeks later; how Rosemonde had gone to avenge him with an ambulance; and how, the war ended, she had come out to the colonies to take up nursing duty. Not for money, either, since it was said that she was wealthy enough to enjoy life had she so desired.

“Eh, bien!” said the governor general the night the Chang Yan sailed, as over the dinner table he told his guests about Rosemonde Burley. “There is the spirit of France for you, there! Nom d’un nom, but she will meet adventure, that woman! She is of a great spirit; a flame is in her. As for the junk, I think it is safe enough.”

Rosemonde thought the Chang Yan safe enough also. Except for sixteen Chinamen, she was the only person aboard; but she had a decent cabin, was waited on with great respect, and the captain was a humorous soul named Hi Lung, who spoke a little French and grinned often.

True, the junk was a junk, with a big eye painted on either bow, a bamboo sail or two, and a sublime faith in heaven. She stank abominably. Her cargo was supposed to be rotten copra from Siam, and was consigned to Nanking, so no one asked what it really was; but the first day out, when Rosemonde saw the yellow mate break out a five-tael tin of opium from a sack of rotten copra, she guessed that this would prove a lively voyage. It did.

In the Far East, as in the Far West, the World War has appreciably affected the general conditions of life, and particularly of woman’s life. Rosemonde Burley, although by reason of her marriage an American citizen and proud of it, had found no difficulty in obtaining a colonial post from France. Behind the lines, and ahead of the lines, Rosemonde had seen many things, and had done many things; she had pulled a loaded ambulance out of hell and had shot three treacherous boches while doing it.

She was perfectly able to use an automatic without wincing; but this did not imply that she was an unwomanly virago. Far from it! Every line of her trim, petite body expressed a vigorous womanhood, a sweetly feminine allure. She was not beautiful, perhaps, but she had the great gift that is beyond beauty— a spirit gently great, tenderly strong. And she had learned, in the bitter crucible, to take care of herself with an aggressive swiftness. Like many another who had passed through the Great War, she now laughed at the worst which the world might proffer.

“One who has been through hell,” she would say, laughing, “does not fear purgatory, eh?” And this was true, Rosemonde feared nothing.

On the morning after leaving Saigon, the junk was out of sight of land— which was not as it should be. Captain Hi Lung grinned and winked humorously about it, saying that the eyes on the bow of the Chang Yan had become crossed and were seeing crooked; but at noon he fussed with his queer instruments and pored over his queer charts with absorbed interest, and an hour later the junk caught the tip of the hurricane that had swept the San Gregorio away from Manila. By night all was serene again and the sails hoisted and Hi Lung stated that in the morning they would be within sight of land.

But when morning came there was no land.

Rosemonde was not aware of the fact until nearly noon, for she was looking forward to hard work and believed in sleeping while the sleeping was good. When she did come on deck she found that not only was land out of sight, but the junk seemed to be heading east rather than north— a strange thing, since Cape Padaran must have long ago been rounded. Rosemonde verified her facts by her watch compass, then looked for the skipper. He was again working with his charts and instruments on the after deck.

It was at this moment that Rosemonde first realized that she was not the only passenger aboard. Sitting beside the captain and inspecting the charts was a stranger— a yellow man also, but dressed in European clothes, and very well dressed to boot. He had the same odd cast of features as most of the other men aboard, that is, instead of owning the oblique eyes of the usual son of Han, he had very straight brows and eyes.

Having comprehended these facts in about ten seconds, Rosemonde turned and went below again to her stateroom. It was a rough, bare little chamber, formed by knocking two former cabins into one. For a few moments she sat quietly, her brown eyes reflectively studying the little gilt Buddha set against the wall near the entrance. She had set her door ajar, and left it so.

If there were anything queer about this cruise, she deduced, the strange passenger had something to do with it. To deal with Hi Lung would lead to nothing, in such case Rosemonde believed in going to headquarters, and it looked as though the stranger were headquarters in this instance. She knew also that there was a cabin adjoining hers, because she had seen the China boy who served as steward going in there with dishes the evening previous.

Knowing better than to attempt any explanation out on deck, where trouble was too apt to be precipitated with the crew shuffling around, Rosemonde took her automatic and went out into the deserted passage. At the door of the adjoining cabin she knocked; there was no reply. She tried the door, found it unlocked, and entered, closing the door behind her.

This cabin was as bare as her own, two suitcases standing against one wall and a Burberry raincoat flung over the bunk. This proved that the strange passenger was the owner, since he alone seemed to wear European clothes, and that Burberry had not been obtained outside a British colony. Rosemonde sat down and waited composedly.

Twenty minutes later the door opened and the strange passenger entered his cabin. He did not see Rosemonde until he had closed the door and started toward his bunk; then he looked into the mouth of her automatic, and obeyed her instantly.

“Sit down and be quiet,” she said in a calm voice. “What is your name, please?”

The yellow man was obviously astonished and disconcerted. Any yellow man would be, upon finding a white girl in his cabin and an automatic under his nose.

“I am Chan Mow Su,” he said, slightly agitated. “Ah— you are Madame Burley!”

To her surprise, he spoke very good French. “Certainly,” she responded coolly. “I do not intend to hurt you, but I desire information. You seem to know all about me. Who are you, and where is this ship going?”

“If you will allow me,” he said politely, “I will hand you my card.”

She nodded, but watched him narrowly as he produced a handsome card-case and selected a card, which he extended upon the card were the words, in English: “Prince Chan Mow Su, Sat On Road, Bangkok Wholesale Imports and Exports.”

“May I ask what has disturbed you?” he inquired smoothly. “I gave strict orders—”

“I am here to ask questions before answering them,” said Rosemonde. “What have you to do with this ship, and where is she going?”

The prince had by this time quite recovered his bland composure.

“She is chartered to me, and is going to land you at Ben Ho— ultimately,” he replied. He was a bulky man, square jawed, and obviously no one’s fool. “When I heard at Saigon that you were seeking to take passage I ordered Captain Hi Lung to accommodate you. I trust there was no harm in that? I had not intended to intrude myself upon you.”

Rosemonde met his smiling gaze frowning a little.

“If you are going to land me at Ben-Ho, why are you heading to the east?” she asked.

“Unfortunately, madam, we have urgent business which must be attended to. You shall reach your destination without harm and with very slight delay—”

“I think you had better go directly up the coast to Ben Ho and land me, then attend to your private business,” said the girl with disconcerting directness. “I paid for a passage upon such an assumption. Captain Hi Lung has lied to me consistently. I think you had better do this.”

“Unfortunately we cannot,” returned the other. “We are supposed to meet another ship at a certain definite time in a certain definite spot A great deal of money depends upon it. After the meeting you shall be landed—”

“I’m tired of evasions, monsieur,” cut in Rosemonde coldly. “I am not to be trifled with. To be frank, I don’t believe a word of your story, and I have no intentions of being calmly abducted. You are not a prince for there are no princes in China, therefore you—”

“For the love of Heaven!” interrupted the yellow man desperately. “You are unreasonable! No one is abducting you. I can give you every proof of my identity; these men aboard have known me for years. And I am not a Chinaman; I am a Manchu as my features testify, and a prince of the Manchus.”

“No matter,” said Rosemonde, unmoved. “You have opium in the cargo, and I think your entire story is a lie. You are evidently engaged upon some illegal business, into which you have no right to drag me. Besides ships do not meet each other in mid-ocean, as you are doing, unless there is some thing very wrong. I do not choose to be a party to such things, you comprehend?”

Prince Chan said something in Mandarin which sounded like curses.

“You are taking a wrong view of everything!” he broke out. “But, madam, now can you help yourself?”

Rosemonde eyed him calculatingly.

“I can shoot you through the right foot,” she observed, “and thus render you incapable of further action. I can do a great deal of damage, in fact, and I propose to do it, unless this ship is headed for the coast immediately.”

The Manchu met her gaze for a moment. In her eyes he read an unflinching purpose, and for a moment his own black eves flickered with admiration. When he spoke it was smoothly and in bland accents that told he was setting himself not to cope with a woman, but to conquer an adversary.

“Madame Burley, will you listen to me a moment? I shall be frank with you. These men in this ship are Manchus like myself; members of the same trading guild, associates with me and with other Manchu princes in a large organization. This guild of ours collected over a million dollars’ worth of opium in Bangkok, Siam; we leased from the Chinese republic the privilege of retailing this opium in certain provinces of China. At the last moment we learned that President Hsu Shih-ch’ang had not only revoked the license of our syndicate, but had also destroyed the twelve hundred chests of opium already in Shanghai— worth fourteen millions in dollars— ninety million francs!”

“Yes,” broke in the girl scornfully, “China has a better president than a Manchu would ever make— an opium dealer who calls himself a prince, to the disgrace of his ancestors!”

The yellow features of Prince Chan darkened slightly at this thrust.

“Accordingly,” he pursued, “we resolved to save the wreck of our fortunes by turning over this opium at Bangkok to another party, who would dispose of it elsewhere. We are now on our way to meet this other party. The meeting, you understand, has long been arranged. Now that I have been absolutely frank with you, holding back nothing, I trust that you will give your assent to our plans? They will not inconvenience you, madam; you will have nothing whatever to do with the opium transaction; you will in no way be connected with it. Can you not, Madame Burley, adjust yourself to the situation? Believe me,” he added softly, “you will lose nothing by it.”

This final subtle suggestion, which might have been a veiled hint either of threat or of bribery, was a mistake, and a costly mistake.

Up until that instant Rosemonde had been watching the prince with calmly reflective interest, held by his air of earnestness, by his fluent French, by his obvious appeal to her sympathies, by the very confidence reposed in her. But that veiled suggestion at the end chilled and penetrated through her hesitation. Unreasonably, perhaps, it angered her.

“Are you going to head for the coast and land me at Ben-Ho?” she demanded quietly.

“Grand Dieu!” cried the Manchu, staring at her. “Have you no reason in you?”

“That is not the question,” she returned acidly. “Do I understand, then, that you refuse to fulfill your contract with me?”

“I? I refuse nothing. I shall go this instant and give the orders—”

Prince Chan started to his feet as he spoke, an air of resignation masking his face and took a step forward. Then, without warning, he lurched against the girl. She fired, but he had struck her hand aside, and the bullet went into the ceiling. He struck again, and she staggered under the blow that smote her cheek.

She had not expected this actual physical encounter, although she had invited it, and she was taken unawares. The Manchu swept the door open before she could fire again, and was gone. She could hear his voice shrilling commands, and then caught the thin, clear note of a whistle.

With that, she left the cabin and turned into her own doorway. She had failed, and did not know what to expect of her failure; she locked her door and waited, weapon in hand. The anger that seethed within her was furious, and against her pale cheek the mark of the blow stood out redly. The very fact that she had failed so utterly, that her impulsive actions had ended in such a fiasco, made her the more furious. She might have expected a blow from the Manchu, but it had not occurred to her that he would behave to her as to a man. She failed to realize that his blows had provided the gentlest method of escape from her weapon.

It is quite idle to assert that the mind of a woman runs in the same grooves as the mind of a man— particularly as regards cause and effect. It does not. It has grooves all its own. Rosemonde Burley considered that she had reason to fight; she had begun to fight, and she intended to go on fighting. She entirely ignored the fact that Prince Chan had displayed an amazing trust in giving her the details of his enterprise— an absolutely illegal enterprise. She ignored his attempt to reason with her. She remembered only his concluding words, which constituted either a bribe or a threat, and his blow.

Presently she heard a gentle knock at her door, and she lifted her weapon.

“Madame!” sounded the voice of the Manchu. There was a new note in the voice, a note of purring menace. “Tomorrow morning at ten o’clock we reach our destination. If you will yield to reason and—”

Rosemonde had been calculating from which side of the door that voice had come; she knew that the speaker was not standing squarely before the door. Now she aimed carefully and pulled the trigger. The deafening roar of the explosion filled the cabin, and a round hole appeared in the door panel.

For a moment there was no indication of the result of her shot. The door, being in a Chinese junk, opened outward. Watching the door, Rosemonde saw it shiver and thud suddenly, as though something had fallen against it. Then she heard the voice of Prince Chan again.

“Very well, madame,” said the Manchu. “We accept your verdict— and you shall be tamed. When you have had enough of thirst and hunger you may surrender; until then you stay where you are. I need another wife, madame; a white wife this time. That honor shall be yours. Au revoir!”

Rosemonde fired once again, but only a laugh mocked her aim. Once more the door gave a shivering thud, and again. Stepping toward it, she unlocked and tested it; the door was solidly blocked shut, probably by coils of line. She locked it again.

Turning, the girl opened her suitcase, which lay upon the bunk. She took out rolls of chocolate, tins of French biscuit, a package of tinned delicacies which had been given her by a Saigon official, and a folding stove with hard alcohol burners.

“Hunger? Bah!” She shrugged her shoulders. Her gaze went to the water pitcher in the corner, which had been filled that morning. “Thirst? Nonsense!” She looked at the large square port, which was open, and smiled at the sunlit sea. “Marriage? There is the escape. He is a fool, this yellow prince!”

And, sitting down, she composedly began to clean her automatic pistol.

6

The Sea Tryst

CAPTAIN CANAUGHAN, Desmond, and O’Sullivan sat smoking in their cabin the afternoon after Canaughan’s rescue. All three had slept long and lustily, but the skipper was chafing under enforced inaction. He had adopted a growling acquiescence in the situation, but reserved his right to the utmost freedom of speech. Juliana was in her own apartment.

“What I want to know,” said the skipper, glaring at Desmond, “is why ye don’t get to work. Take the ship by tomorrow night, ye said. Well, it’s tomorrow night tonight, ye lazy hound, and you sitting there grinning!”

“I mind reading a poem,” said O’Sullivan softly and reminiscently, ruffling up his long black hair, “in a magazine. ’Twas wrote about Ireland, which was called Erin, and it was wrote by a guy named Kennedy, only he spelled his name ‘Cinneidhe’ to show he had the Gaelic, in which he was a liar because he spelled ‘mhuirnin’ like Tom Moore spelled it, and Heaven knows there’s no Gaelic in it that way—”

“What are ye interrupting me for, blast your impudence?” exclaimed Captain Canaughan. “What’s this fool poem of yours got to do with what I’m sayin’?”

“I’m comin’ to that,” retorted the fiddler. “D’ye mind there was only one true word in that poem, sir? For a fact there was! And that was where he spoke about an Ulsterman always improving—”

“True for ye there,” interjected the skipper. “An Ulsterman always does improve—”

“— like bad fish in July,” added O’Sullivan slyly, throwing Desmond a wink.

“Hell’s bells!” roared the skipper furiously. “If ye were not a little runt of a man not worth me attention I’d break your back over me knee, ye little herring! Oh, laugh, blast the two of ye! Wait till we set foot ashore, you, Desmond, and I’ll wipe the laugh off that mug of yours! When are ye going to put a bullet into that slimy Arevalo, will ye tell me?”

“Give him until tomorrow noon,” chuckled Desmond, puffing contentedly at a cheroot. “What’s ailing you, anyhow? We’re comfortable here; it’s Arevalo that’s doing the work and the worrying! If we haven’t discovered what his game is by noon, or why he’s heading into the China Sea, we’ll take back the ship and go home. Does that suit ye?”

Canaughan frowned over his pipe. “I’ll tell ye what,” he said. “I don’t like it! Before we left port Arevalo came to me and wanted to run a bit of dope— opium, mind. I’ll not say but what I’d obliged him before in a small way—”

“And you a righteous man?” queried Desmond whimsically. “But never mind. Go on.”

“But he had somethin’ big on his mind,” proceeded the skipper. “And, having the owner aboard, I told him no. So he gave it up, and wanted a passage down to Mindoro, which I was glad enough to grant. Now, then, I’m thinking that maybe he’s trying to put over the opium game somehow. What it is I don’t know, for he would not go into details.”

“Likely enough,” said Desmond indifferently. “Well, let him go to it!”

“But don’t ye see the authorities would raise hell with us?” Canaughan glared at him. “Heaven knows it’s a fishy enough story we’ll have to tell, and it the honest truth from start to finish! But if there’s a smell of dope to it, then—”

“Don’t fret,” and Desmond yawned. “Instead of killing him, we’ll take him in alive—”

“Blast your bloody bored teeth!” roared the skipper, exasperated. “Have ye no atom of sense? Cannot ye see that—”

At this point O’Sullivan produced his fiddle, and, the bridge muted, drew his bow across the strings in a wailing air that filled the cabin with a croon of melody. The burly skipper was hushed instantly, and did not speak until O’Sullivan paused. Then:

“Ye have the gift,” he exclaimed grudgingly. “I suppose ye never heard a tune that went by the name of ‘Mayo County’ or some such thing? I remember me old grandmother, who had a bent for them Papistical airs, used to hum it—”

The fiddler tightened a peg and struck into the slow-swinging minors requested, and grizzled old Canaughan sat with pipe gripped hard in his teeth until the last note had died. Then he sighed and rose to make ready for bed.

Despite his apparent carelessness, Desmond thought long and hard that night as he stared into the darkness while the San Gregorio lurched westward. He felt that trouble was brewing; Arevalo had not molested them, which boded ill, and Desmond wondered if it were wise to postpone retaking the ship.

Still, on the morrow both he and Canaughan would be fully recovered, fully themselves. The schooner would not be regained without a fight, that was certain, and thus far Desmond had formed no scheme for managing the fight without bloodshed. His chief worry was Doña Juliana, whose nature demanded protection and shielding rather than a share in the fray.

“Poor little girl!” he thought pityingly. “She’s bearing up bravely under it all, and we’ll get her safe home again somehow. It’s a sweetheart she has, and no mistake! Now that she knows we’re all gentlemen she’s warming up to us elegantly. All the fine lady of her and the high-born airs will be gone in another day or two, and she’ll be a fine jewel of a girl for any man alive to be dreaming about— Oh, well! You’re a poor divil of a broken Irishman, Gerald Desmond, with nothing ahead of ye except maybe to go to America like your ancestors and see what the land o’ freedom has to offer ye. There’s no thinking of marriage for the likes of you, me lad.”

He smiled into the darkness.

“Maybe, now,” he reflected, “there’ll be a bit of luck waiting around the corner to hit me over the head. Maybe I’ll strike a fortune like the lads in books, or find a bag of pearls somewhere in these seas or strike a guano island. What the devil is guano, I wonder? If it smells anything like what Arevalo burned when he shuffled Don Gregorio into paradise, then an island of it would want no finding, I’m thinking—” He slid into sleep, unworrying about the morrow.

As for Juliana, she had to some extent laid aside her grief for her father and was applying her energies to the present moment. She was entirely aware of her own beauty and within the past twenty-four hours had become aware of something else; namely, that Gerald Desmond was the only man she had ever met who seemed oblivious to her beauty!

To be sure, he was as gallant as anyone in Manila had been; he uttered warm phrases and the most adroit flatteries, and he had established himself upon an intimate and familiar footing such as Juliana had never dreamed she would grant to any man— even her future husband! Yet, somehow, she was disagreeably aware that Desmond would have acted precisely in the same fashion with anyone else whom he had happened to like, and that his familiarity and intimacy were entirely as aloof and respectful as were the dumbly admiring stares of O’Sullivan. She was getting to understand Desmond, or, rather, to appreciate him.

She could not forget, too, that he was an extremely handsome man; his eyes were handsome and warm, and while his finely chiseled features had nothing of the Adonis in them they were alive with a tremendously virile strength and sureness. And he was a gentleman in the truest sense of the word, filled with a high courtesy and chivalry which the girl divined and which struck fire from her Gothic blood. She congratulated herself that such a man had been at hand to checkmate Arevalo, for whom she felt only repulsion and hatred.

With the following morning, Juliana, moved by obscure impulses, descended into the rat-ridden darkness of the run, got up cabin stores, worked for an hour, and aroused the three men in the adjoining cabin with a beaming summons to breakfast. She was delighted by their astonishment, although none of them perhaps realized that it was about the first useful thing she had ever done in her life. But Juliana was awakening.

“Stand by until noon,” commanded Desmond, when Captain Canaughan renewed his importunities. “If nothing’s turned up by then we’ll turn up ourselves. The only way we can get out, since they’ve barricaded the door, is to use the window and climb over the rail. And who’s going first, eh?”

“I’ve a pack o’ cards in me fiddle case,” suggested O’Sullivan. “We might have a bit game, unless it would offend the righteousness of the skipper—”

“It would not,” said Canaughan gloomily. “Although there’ll be no blessin’ on such ungodly doin’s, to my way of thinking. And as to going first, I’m willing enough.”

“Settle it with the cards,” approved Desmond, more to keep the skipper occupied than anything else.

“But,” queried Juliana; looking from one to the other, “where shall I be?”

“Right here, jewel of the world!” and Desmond laughed. “And when it’s all over—”

At that minute the schooner gave a shuddering lurch which nearly threw them out of their seats.

“Aground!” cried the fiddler, running to the stern windows; which were kept shuttered and bolted against any possible attempt from Arevalo to gain entrance that way.

“Aground where?” cried Canaughan scornfully. “There’s no reef the way we’ve been driving. Not a speck o’ coral even. We’ve run alongside another ship, that’s what. Feel her lift an’ heave? Someone’s had sense enough to put out fenders; Balderson most like. He’s the one good seaman in all that scum, blast him!”

O’Sullivan got the iron shutters torn open by the time they joined him; his pinched, eager face was framed against the blue sky. The silence of incredulity fell upon them as they crowded beside him, until presently Canaughan spoke.

“Plain enough now,” he said bitterly. “Arevalo and that blasted mate o’ mine were in together on the deal. The mate laid a course for here, smashed my telltale and smashed the engines likewise, so that I’d be able to make no trouble in case I was locked below. Well, the mate’s got his deserts, praise be! Would ye look at that now? Oh, the blasted lubbers! Look at ’em handle the lines!”

Beside the schooner lay a Chinese junk; rather, she had lain beside a moment before, but was now drifting slightly astern, and thus within the range of vision of those at the San Gregorio‘s stern window.

There was a long, swinging swell to the ocean, because of which it had obviously been found impracticable that the two craft could lie side by side. As Canaughan explained it to the other three, the schooner was slowly forging ahead under reduced canvas, thus holding the junk slightly astern; a cable had already been made fast, and a second cable was now being made fast in the rigging of the junk, upon whose deck great activity was manifest.

“Talk about your bold simplicity!” growled the skipper, watching through his glasses. “That junk has come out into the China Sea with a cargo of opium, and she’s goin’ to transfer the dope to us, and Arevalo runs it back into the islands. He can land the whole blasted lot at Mindoro and never a question asked.”

“Would he land it at our plantation?” asked Juliana.

“Most like. They’re rigging up a conveyor on that second cable aloft, and in ten minutes they’ll be shooting the stuff over, blast ’em!”

“Give me those binoculars, Canaughan,” said Desmond suddenly. “I’ve seen something.”

The skipper grunted and complied. Desmond raised the glasses and focused upon a square window amidships of the junk, at which his eyes had caught a flutter of white.

As he gazed he saw the window swing open, and the binoculars brought to him every detail of the woman’s face which was framed in the opening. The others were absorbed in watching the preparations to transship cargo, and Desmond said nothing of his discovery. He saw the woman standing staring at the schooner, and she was a white woman. For an instant he shifted his gaze and scanned the decks of the junk, but could see no white man aboard. Returning to the woman, searching her features with puzzled eyes, he could not resist the impression that she was white, frightened, tragic. Desmond slowly moved his hand across his breast as in signal, and she answered with a like gesture.

“Miss Juliana!” Desmond turned and beckoned the girl beside him to the window. “Look yonder! See if that woman answers your gestures and motion her to be careful.”

A scant fifty feet of water separated the two vessels. Doña Juliana made signals, as Desmond had requested, then laid her finger to her lips and turned around.

“What does it mean?” she asked. “Who is that woman?”

“I don’t know,” said Desmond, “but I’ll find out. Mr. Canaughan, who’s bawling out in Chinese from up above? Is that cook of yours an old hand?”

“A new one— just shipped him in Manila,” said the skipper, who with O’Sullivan was now scrutinizing the woman aboard the junk. “Ah, she’s gone! Why, that’s the cook talkin’, I expect. Think he was an agent in this blasted dope running?”

“Sure of it,” assented Desmond. “They look like Manchus aboard the junk there, and he was a Manchu, too; straight eyes, you know, and a different air.”

A Celestial with a megaphone was standing in the bows of the junk, talking with someone on the schooner’s deck. For the present, however, Desmond was confident that every one concerned had been too absorbed in the work on hand to notice either the woman at her window or the figures at the stern window of the schooner.

Leaving the other three to discuss the junk, Desmond went into the forward cabin. He felt himself once more, and he was ready for action. Gerald Desmond was essentially unable to depend upon anyone but himself; he was made that way. When he wanted a thing done he did it in his own fashion. He had learned to be aggressively self-dependent, and it was at times a bad habit, but when it came to action Desmond was all alone in his special field. In action he was transformed. The lounging drawl, the slow-moving indolence, was gone from him in a flash. One realized suddenly what tremendous possibilities lay in the man. He became a living flame of audacity.

Feeling one of the mattresses which he and the fiddler had brought in from the other cabin, Desmond found what he sought— a filling of straw. He carried it back into the other cabin, ripping at it with his knife.

“Now, then,” he said, and at the ring in his voice the others turned from the window, “stay away from there a few minutes, if ye please; we don’t want to attract attention. That’s right; leave the window open, but keep out o’ sight from the junk.”

“Talk about piracy!” exclaimed Captain Canaughan, watching the destruction of the mattress. “What’s goin’ on, anyhow? You aiming to burn my own ship under me?”

Desmond did not reply for a moment. He finished ripping the ticking, and from the mattress produced a huge double-armful of straw, which he placed in a heap beneath the window.

“What’s that woman doing on that junk?” he said, straightening up. “She’s a white woman, and she’s in trouble, eh?”

“We’re in a sight more trouble,” said the skipper. “If you’re so much worried about her, why don’t you go ask her?”

“That’s what I’m going to do,” said Desmond calmly. “Michael Terence, will you be finding that bucket o’ lard and grease this automatic o’ mine good and heavy?”

“What!” cried Juliana, her gray eyes widening at him. “You’re not going to swim?”

“If you give me a chance to slip overboard in decency, I am,” and Desmond grinned.

There was a moment’s silence, while they stared at him amazedly. Then Desmond turned and, lifting the straw, dropped it out of the window in a mass.

“Oh, you can’t mean to swim over there!” exclaimed Doña Juliana. “Think what it will mean— either the Chinese will see you, or our own crew; they may even shoot at you!”

“I don’t doubt they would if they saw me,” commented Desmond lightly, “but they’ll not see me. Now, Miss Juliana, will you have the kindness to step into the other cabin for a minute? I’m wearin’ the skipper’s clothes, you understand, and I’m sure it’ll warm his blood to know that I’m not going to take ’em all with me, eh; skipper? Get that gun ready, Michael Terence, for I’ll be needing it.”

“They’ll see you drop over,” said the skipper sourly.

“That’s the chance,” was Desmond’s cheerful response. “Here’s the rope we brought in the other night; pass it out and I’ll slide down to avoid a splash. The odds are even that Arevalo’s bunch is working by one of the main hatchways, and those chinks may not notice me.”

“You’re running your head into a net, ye big fool,” said Canaughan, picking up the line. “Ye see a pretty face— and bang goes all sense!”

Desmond looked at him a moment, his eyes cold.

“I’ll put some sense into you when we step ashore, my bucko,” he said quietly.

“You’ll be welcome to try,” returned the skipper. “My only fear is that ye’ll not live to see the day, you and your wild ways! So take care of yourself for the sake of the trimming I’ll give ye.”

Desmond, stripped to his underwear, buckled around his waist his belt with the automatic which the fiddler had larded.

“I’m off,” he said. “If they’ve seen the straw floating they’ll have grown used to it by this time. Be good to yourself, Michael Terence!”

The fiddler, his pinched features flushed with excitement, hung to Desmond’s hand.

“Wait a minute now! When are ye coming back, sir? The cap’n here was sayin’ we’d catch that storm back on us again, and divil knows what we’d do if you didn’t show up—”

“I’ll go aboard that junk if I get a chance,” said Desmond. “If I do, and you hear any shooting, then climb out and kick Arevalo into the sea. We might as well take the junk home with us and make a clean sweep of it, eh? Thunder o’ Finn, that’s an idea, skipper! I’ll do it anyhow. Remember, now— when ye hear the shooting boot Arevalo and boot him hard! Good-by and good luck to ye.”

“Heaven help ye!” returned the skipper dourly. “Ye have need of the help.”

7

Desmond Adventures

ROSEMONDE BURLEY was totally unable to understand the queer spectacle at the stern of the schooner. She saw the faces in the window, just over the painted words, “San Gregorio,” and she comprehended that those faces were staring at the junk in obvious amazement. Then, just as she had decided to send a call for help, Desmond had brought Doña Juliana to the opening, and there had come that signal for caution.

On the schooner’s deck above Rosemonde could see a yellow man shouting through a megaphone and could hear Prince Chan replying; but the schooner seemed to be manned by whites or half-castes. Arevalo, in command with Balderson, seemed some sort of native, but Balderson was manifestly white, as were the others. And then Desmond, at the cabin window, had flung out a great heap of straw, which clung against the ship’s stern.

Rosemonde was not starved, but most of her provisions were used up, and all her water was gone. Her door was effectually blocked from the outside. As she watched the schooner’s stern window she saw a rope flung out, and shortly afterward appeared Desmond. He slid down swiftly into the water— and did not come up.

The girl watched, wide-eyed, perplexed, and alarmed. No one seemed to have observed Desmond; yet where had he gone? Then she saw the straw jerk slightly as it floated, and she understood. Presently the straw began to move toward the junk, the whole heap of it, until, as it drew closer, it was lost to her range of vision. She sat breathless, waiting for a voice from below, but no voice came.

Rosemonde had not deluded herself with hopes of succor from the schooner, which could carry only accomplices of the Manchu prince, until she had glimpsed the face of Doña Juliana. Then, after seeing Desmond descend into the sea, she realized that something similar to her own position must obtain aboard the other craft. But where had the man gone? In agonized suspense she sat listening, waiting, not knowing what to expect or hope or fear. She knew very well that, despite the arguments of law and order, queer things did happen at sea even in these prosaic days. She knew that, despite scoffers, actual piracy of the old school still turned up from time to time. She knew that in such a combination of circumstances as now obtained anything was possible. So she waited, listening. Nothing happened. At the stern window of the schooner she saw anxious faces appear and vanish quickly, as though fearful of being noted. The rope had been drawn up. From the swashing waves below came no hail, no voice. The minutes dragged fearfully. Up above there was some hitch in the work; the Manchus were breaking out some of their cargo, preparing to transship the opium. Some had already gone to the schooner. Rosemonde waited, her nerves pricking; then suddenly came a sound at her door. Her pistol wavered up, only to halt.

“Who’s there?” she called softly. “Speak quickly!”

She had spoken in French, and now the answer came back to her— a cautious flood of abominable soldier brogue, mixed with English ejaculations and asides.

“Une moment, s’iou plait— mille polochons! What the divil is this rope doin’ on the door now? A moment, madame; have no fear, and I shall be with you— damnation light on the yellow divils, for if they catch me here I’m gone— rien à craindre, bel ange— who in hell did be layin’ the stuff here— ne vous effrayez donc—”

Rosemonde unlocked the door. A moment afterward it burst open as Desmond concluded his removal of the barricade. The two stood there, gazing at each other.

“Oh!” murmured Desmond, thinking that she spoke only French. “And to think o’ me in me underwear, poor divil!”

A ripple of laughter crossed the features of Rosemonde; to his dismay Desmond realized that she spoke not French alone, but English.

“There’s a Burberry in the cabin to the right,” she said demurely.

Desmond turned and vanished. For the moment he had forgotten the dangerous features of the situation. Meeting this amazing woman whom he had never before seen was like a flash of lightning in the night. He was back in a moment with the long rainproof cloaking him. As he entered her cabin and closed the door he bowed to her with his fine courtesy.

“My name is Desmond, madame; Gerald Desmond, late of the Royal Air Corps. I came over thinking I might be of service to you. If so, pray consider me at your command.”

“How did you get aboard here?” she demanded, remembering that agonized wait.

“Faith, I floated around to the stern, came up the misbegotten rudder post and in an open window, and started to find you,” Desmond smiled. “It was takin’ a bit for granted maybe, but that’s a habit I have—”

“Oh, miséricorde!” gasped the girl suddenly, as remembrance flooded upon her. “I— I— monsieur, I am very silly to—”

Desmond caught her as she swayed; he thought she would faint, but she recovered herself with a word of protest. The reaction had seized her violently.

Leaving her for the moment, Desmond cautiously placed himself at the port. Overhead, the work was on full swing, and he saw a huge bale being hauled aboard the San Gregorio. At the stern window of the schooner he had a glimpse of O’Sullivan’s face and waved his hand. Then he withdrew, fearful lest he be seen; and turned again to Rosemonde.

“I don’t know what’s troubling you, madame,” he said gravely, “but from the bullet holes in the door yonder, and various indications of activity, there seems to have been a ruction. If ye have no objections to outlining the general action, it might be a good thing to speak up, for there’s the storm comin’ back on us and work to be done.”

Rosemonde looked at him, smiling bravely, yet with misty eyes.

“Oh!” she said. “I am so glad to meet a man like you!”

“I hope ye’ll never be sorry for it,” said Desmond gallantly. “You’re French, I take it?”

“I am an American!” she said. “At least—”

Thus she told him her story and the story of the Chang Yan.

Desmond listened without comment, his eyes hardening a little as she came to the final threat of Prince Chan, and when she had finished, after sketching very briefly her own part in the adventure, Desmond gave her a rapid survey of the situation aboard the schooner.

“And now,” he added with a wry smile, “I’ve put me foot in it. When I left yonder I told ’em to be out on deck and start fighting if they heard any shooting over here, and it was a fool order. Sixteen of those Chinamen, eh? To say nothin’ of Arevalo and his gang. Poor O’Sullivan and the skipper would be wiped out o’ sight without me there to guide ’em!”

“But if you were there?” queried Rosemonde, breathless.

“Ah, now it’s talkin’ you are, sweet jewel!” Desmond started up. “Can you swim?”

“A little, yes; but I cannot swim back to your ship!”

“Ye don’t have to!” Desmond’s eyes were blazing now, alight with inspiration. “I’ll be gone a few minutes. Get ready any little things ye may want to take along, and I’ll see to the rest. Thunder o’ Finn! Why didn’t I think of it before? All this time wasted, and opium pourin’ into the schooner like water! Keep away from the window, like a good girl, and trust me to do the rest.”

Thus speaking, Desmond paused not for questions, but vanished into the passage outside.

Rosemonde, still gasping over his suddenness, got together a few personal effects. She realized that Desmond had come aboard unseen by any, that his presence here was quite unsuspected by the Manchus; he therefore possessed an advantage in whatever scheme he might attempt. But she could see no hope for them both to get aboard the schooner.

She was ready and now waited at the doorway, listening for some alarm. She had determined not to let this man do battle by himself. At the first shot she would sally forth to aid him, and yet he had said that there must be no shooting! What could he be doing? She could hear nothing except a trampling of feet on the deck above and the chattering voices of the men at work. By this time she realized there must have gone aboard the Sun Gregorio a huge amount of opium— huge in value, that is. Its bulk would not be great.

A step in the passage, and she looked out, her automatic lifting. But it was Desmond, whistling under his breath and seeming quite unimpressed by his situation. He laughed gaily as she stepped aside to let him enter, and picked up one of the coils of rope that had barricaded the door from the outside.

“We’ll have need of this, likely,” he observed, flinging it into the cabin with an effort. “Now there’s nothing to do except to lock the door and await events. Luckily we’re on the starboard side; it’ll bring us close under the stern o’ the schooner.”

“What will?” demanded Rosemonde, staring at him. “What have you done? How can we get to the schooner?”

Desmond, of a sudden, was aware of a great beauty in her brown eyes— not what other men might call beauty perhaps, but the true symmetry of all relation between physical and spiritual and mental. He felt abashed and put to confusion before her grave gaze, as though he were less than the dust below her feet. It came upon him that she held within her something very far and high, something untouched and unhurt by the world—

“A Mhuire!” he muttered, confused by his own dazed sensation. “What did ye say your name was— Rosemonde? Ah, it’s a leanhaunshee ye are, a fairy mistress? It’s the inspiration of a poet that looks out of your eyes, Rosemonde! But what was it you were askin’ me?”

She gazed at him curiously, half smiling at his words, yet wondering at him.

“How can we get aboard the schooner, Dream Man?” she said. “For you are a man out of a dream, if there ever was one!”

Desmond laughed aloud at her mood. “Throw the rope out of the window and slide down. We’ll be alongside the schooner presently. My friends yonder will pick us up.”

“Oh! And how shall we be alongside the schooner?”

“When these Chinese divils wake up to what’s below they’ll get aboard to save their lives, won’t they?”

She frowned, puzzled by his words.

“Please tell me what you’ve done. How—”

“Oh, I forgot I hadn’t explained to ye,” said Desmond hastily. “Well, it’s very simple. I noticed there was only one small boat aboard this elegant ship, and that boat was stowed plumb in the stern. So I found me way aft, everybody bein’ up on deck and built an excellent little fire where the wind will fan it up—”

She started. “A fire? You set fire to the ship?”

“Of course. Haven’t I been trying to tell you about it all this while?”

“This ship is afire— now?”

Desmond waved his hand gaily. “The sweetest fire you ever saw, Rosemonde! They’ll not discover it for another five minutes, and then it’ll be over the stern and sweepin’ the lee side— which is not this side— and the yellow boys will shout for help. The schooner will drop back to take ’em aboard, and we’ll go aboard likewise, only the other way. There now! It’s put me out o’ breath talkin’ so much—”

Rosemonde sank on her berth, facing him, an excited laugher shaking her.

“Mon Dieu, what a man!” she murmured. “But what if we do not get alongside the schooner.”

“Then,” retorted Desmond coolly, “we’re out of luck, that’s all. But I’ve never been out o’ luck in me life, no, not even in Manila! I can see plainly now that my getting shanghaied was the biggest stroke of luck ever happened to me.”

“Why?” she ventured incautiously.

“Because I’ve met you, fairy mistress!”

“Bah! Do you talk this way to all women?”

“I’m afraid I do, Rosemonde,” said Desmond, but now unsmiling. “Yet this time it’s from me heart.”

She met his gaze steadily. There was a moment of silence.

An absurd situation— this man clad in underwear and a raincoat, talking thus to such a woman at their first meeting! Yet something in Desmond’s personality lifted his words into earnest conviction, dispelled all thought of the situation. Rosemonde read strange deep things in those blue eyes of his, and a slow tide of color rose into her face. When she spoke it was in abrupt reversion to the prior subject.

“What if they put out the fire?”

“They can’t put out two at once; they’ve not men enough.”

“Two? You have—”

“Yes. I started another one as far forward as I could get. It’s blazin’ merrily by this time, let’s pray. They’ll discover it soon enough—”

A sudden yelping of voices answered him, held him tense. Feet pounded the deck above. Through the open window came the sound of shrill cries, a babel of shouts and orders. Aboard the steamer Desmond could see the crew rushing from their work into the stern. He lifted his automatic toward Arevalo, then slowly lowered it, shaking his head regretfully. One shot might spoil all his scheme.

“They are coming— for me,” said Rosemonde quietly.

Desmond swung about to the door, which was now locked. A trampling of feet was in the passage outside, the door shivered and banged to the urge of hands, and the voice of Prince Chan shrilled excitedly.

“Madame! The ship is on fire— come quickly!”

To the inquiring eyes of Rosemonde, Desmond shook his head, and she kept silent. The Manchu flung himself against the door, and again, but he could not prevail. A burst of wild chatterings summoned him away, and at the same instant a curl of smoke came in beneath the door.

“He’s gone,” said Desmond. “They need him up above, and the smoke is thick outside. Now for the schooner, fairy mistress—”

An exclamation of delight broke from him as he gained the window. At the stern of the schooner were clustered her crew, hauling in on the cables; her lines had been slacked off, and with flapping canvas she was falling back while the junk surged ahead. At the stern windows appeared Canaughan and O’Sullivan, staring at the junk. Desmond made them a sign and tossed out the end of the line which he had prepared. They would understand soon enough.

Already the roar of flames had drowned everything from hearing. Desmond swept an eye at the sky and was not reassured; sea and heavens were dead and dull to the sight, and the waves were heaving with an ominous, glassy smoothness.

“Be careful!” cried Rosemonde, catching Desmond’s arm. “The ships are coming together!”

He nodded. As he had figured, Arevalo, or, rather, Balderson, who was in practical command of the schooner, was about to take off Prince Chan and the Manchus. Hope of saving the Chang Yanhad been abandoned, but the San Gregorio could be laid athwart her bows long enough for the Chinese to get aboard the schooner.

“Into the water with you, Rosemonde,” said Desmond at the right instant. “They’ll never notice us now; Arevalo and his crowd are too concerned about getting the yellow men safely off. I’ll be right after you.”

Rosemonde asked no questions, but came to the window. Smoke was drifting past now, a cloud of yellowish-gray fumes, choking and obscuring everything. Almost blindly the girl forced herself outward and plunged.

Desmond followed her to the window, seeing as he did so that Canaughan was lowering the line from the stern window of the schooner. But at that instant the scream of a man came from outside the cabin. Desmond remembered the man whom he had wounded, the man who must burn to death.

Without hesitation he turned about, unlocked the door, and staggered into the smoke reek. He found his man, still wildly screaming, and dragged him back to safety. The Manchu had been shot through the shoulder; Desmond heaved him through the window bodily, then followed him as quickly as might be. When he plunged into the water and came up to the surface the yellow man was frenziedly shouting and flurrying a dozen feet distant.

Desmond struck out for the schooner’s stern, where he saw Rosemonde at the rope. Before he reached her side, Canaughan and O’Sullivan were hauling her up. He had a glimpse, too, of Juliana aiding them. Then he was under the stern, and the line dropped down over his hand.

Twenty minutes later a foaming line of hissing water struck the schooner, and the blazing pyre that had been the Chang Yan was swallowed up in the vague horizon of the hurricane which had circled back upon its prey. The schooner drove, staggering into the west.

8

Ashore

PARACEL ISLAND is one of many forgotten shoals that dot the China Sea between the Philippines and the mainland. Uninhabited, far from the steamer lanes, Paracel Island lies in the azure sea neglected of men, visited only by the occasional bêche-de-mer fishers who probe the long reefs and shoals for the sea slugs.

There was no azure sea around Paracel, however, when the San Gregorio struck. There was but a wild swelter of foam in the night, and the huge seas lifted the schooner over the outer reef, dropped her in the lagoon, and drove her on the inner reef before the men aboard her realized their danger.

This came in the night following the meeting with the junk. Desmond and his friends, securely battened below, had been unable either to reach the deck or to attempt the recovery of the ship. This latter, indeed, Desmond admitted to be impossible for the present, for Arevalo had been reinforced by the Manchus and the chance had been.

Juliana and Rosemonde had retired to the former’s cabin, and Captain Canaughan was growling at Desmond when the crash came. The two were flung on top of O’Sullivan, in the corner. The ship struck again, and this time remained steady, although with a sharp list to port.

What followed was tragically brief and sudden. The second shock had hurled Desmond headlong against a stanchion, dazing and stunning him; the lamp, slung in gimbals, had been shattered, fortunately without the oil catching fire. In the darkness there came a rending smash at the door, and at the same time Juliana and Rosemonde had come hastily from their cabin.

Desmond was roused by a scream from Juliana, followed by the bursting crash of a shot, the trampling of feet, and a roar of voices. He recognized that the instant the ship had struck, Arevalo must have led his forces below to find Juliana. There came another shot, a bellow in the voice of Canaughan, and a rushing whirl of bodies. The cabin was in blind confusion. An uproar of oaths and screams filled the place.

Finding a match, Desmond scratched it. Before the flame flared up a mass of bodies swirled into him, extinguished the light. Fingers groped at his throat; then, to his great satisfaction. Desmond found himself at grips with a tangible antagonist. From somewhere rang out a third shot. By the quick explosion, Desmond recognized the snarling features of Arevalo pressed close upon him.

“Thunder o’ Finn!” he cried out, his voice lost amid the din. “Now, me bucko—”

Merciless, he drew the murderer to him, heard Arevalo shriek in his ear, sank his hands in the man’s neck cords. Over the uproar pierced the great voice of Balderson, but Desmond heeded nothing of what was passing around him. A groaning man fell against the two, knocked them against the wall.

Arevalo screamed again, the scream ending suddenly as Desmond lifted and dashed him into the wall of the ship. The half-breed’s grip tightened convulsively; again Desmond sent him crashing against a stanchion. This time the clutching hands were loosened in death. Arevalo relaxed, shuddering, and was dead before Desmond could drop him.

The schooner seemed suddenly quiet. No seas were beating against her broken hull— the lagoon protected her. The tumult in the cabin had hushed, but from the deck above was sounding a rush of feet and storm of voices. Desmond, fishing in his pocket for a match, realized that the men had departed.

“Mr. Desmond!” came a voice.

“That you, Rosemonde?” he returned. “Ah, here’s a match—”

The light flared up. He saw Rosemonde standing in the doorway of the inner cabin, a pistol in her hand. O’Sullivan was staggering to his feet. The match died suddenly.

“Divil take it! Rosemonde, will you get me the lamp from your cabin? Thanks.”

He found another match and lighted it. Rosemonde joined him a moment later with the lamp. Lighting this, Desmond gave it to her to hold, then turned.

“Come here!” cried out the fiddler, bending over a dark shape. Besides Arevalo there were two other bodies twisted in death. Rosemonde had shot well. But it was not above these that O’Sullivan knelt.

“Canaughan!” exclaimed Desmond sharply, lifting the head of the skipper. The latter opened his eyes and smiled grimly.

“Desmond— I take back what I said about— Papists— aye, man! ’Twas but said to— plague ye a bit— look out for— Miss Juliana—”

The skipper sighed and relaxed. Mute, O’Sullivan pointed to a ragged knife wound below the throat, through which the sturdy Ulsterman’s life had fled. Desmond leaped up.

“Juliana! Where is she, Rosemonde?”

The hazel eyes, black in the lamplight, dilated. “Ah! They must have taken—”

Whirling, Desmond ran for the deck, curses on his lips. As he ran he gripped out his automatic, which all this while had lain under his arm. The hatchway was open.

He realized now that Arevalo, seeing the ship lost, had left the Chinese to get out the boats while he flung his men below in an effort to take Juliana from her haven in the cabins. Arevalo had paid for this work— but Juliana was gone.

Desmond darted up the ladder and threw himself out into the gusty blackness of the night. The deck slanted sharply to port, but the ship seemed secure enough. Unable to see any details of what was around him, Desmond ran forward. He met no one, but an instant later he saw a dark shape whirled away from the bows, vanishing in the night. The last boat had gone.

Putting his weapon away, Desmond went the rounds of the deck, marveling that despite the ferocity of the wind there was little spray flying. From the absence of seas, however, he deduced that the ship must lie within some reef circle. The surrounding darkness was quite impenetrable, and he knew that he must wait until morning to define the position. The foremast had gone when the ship struck and had smashed one of the boats to flinders. The remaining boats were gone.

Desmond, whistling between his teeth, returned to the after hatchway. There O’Sullivan encountered him.

“Gone? Well, praise be ye got Arevalo, sir! Are we sinkin’?”

“No, we seem safe enough, Michael Terence. Hurt?”

“We’re all right, sir. Poor Canaughan! It’s gone he is—”

“None o’ that, me lad,” said Desmond. “We’ll have more grieving to do before we’re out o’ this, I’m thinking. In the lee o’ the deck I could hear breakers, so we’re ashore somewhere. You and I must stand watch an’ watch this night and spend the time gettin’ Canaughan sewed up for decent burial in the morning. Let the lady sleep.”

He passed below and rejoined Rosemonde, shaking his head in response to her glance of inquiry.

“She’s gone, Rosemonde, but she’s in no danger. When they find that Arevalo hasn’t come ashore they’ll have no object in keeping Juliana a prisoner. Where we are I don’t know, but we’ve run smack ashore and are safe for the present. Since we’re apt to be busy in the mornin’, you’d better take ray advice and get some sleep.”

“Sleep!” repeated Rosemonde, staring at him. “After what has just happened—”

Desmond shrugged his shoulders. “What’s done is done, Rosemonde. You must make yourself sleep, me lady; things are goin’ to happen tomorrow, and we’ll need the benefit o’ your brain when Prince Chan and Balderson come back.”

“You think they’ll come back?”

“Yes. Isn’t there a million dollars’ forth of opium, more or less, aboard here? You wait and see. Tomorrow we’ll need our heads!”

Rosemonde indicated the bodies on the cabin floor. “And— these?”

“We’ll take care of them.”

She said no more, but turned about and closed the door Desmond looked at O’Sullivan and grimaced.

“There’s a woman for ye, Michael Terence! Now turn in an’ get a bit o’ sleep.”

The fiddler, his long black hair flying about his pinched features, directed a long look at the body of the skipper, then without a word flung himself into a bunk.

Desmond was saddened more than he cared to admit by the death of the skipper. In the short time he had known Captain Canaughan he had found deep store of sturdy character in the Ulsterman and much to admire. The man’s death was untimely. It formed one of those strangely uncompleted things which go to make up life— a race half run, a skein left all at loose ends.

There must be a new alignment now that Arevalo was gone, reflected Desmond. Of the schooner’s original complement, three men were left with Balderson; the yellow cook would have joined the Manchus, placing about nineteen men under Prince Chan— fifteen yellow, four white. And the prince would command them; of course Balderson would defer to him.

“The two of us and Rosemonde against ’em,” thought Desmond. “That is, if they elect to fight. We’ll have to wait and see what’ll turn up, eh? There are chances for anything with that gang.”

* * * *

Morning broke a gray, storm-filled morning, with shreds of misty scud carrying across the wreck from the outer reef. Desmond had relieved O’Sullivan an hour previously. He now stood in the bows, regarding the situation with no great delight.

The schooner had been lifted across the outer barrier reef, after striking first, and had been driven across the lagoon upon a second shoal but a hundred yards from the shore. There, upon the white sand beach, Desmond saw the two boats of the schooner. No men were in sight, but the island was thickly grown with brush and trees almost to the shore. From his position Desmond could form little idea of its size.

He went below, wakened O’Sullivan, and between them they got the body of Canaughan on deck. The other bodies had been thrown overboard during the night. Finding that Rosemonde was awake and dressing, Desmond waited until she joined them above, and then proceeded with the funeral.

The entire ship now being in their possession, Desmond took charge of the galley and soon had a steaming breakfast ready. They ate the meal in the lee of the deck house. To his secret admiration, Desmond found that Rosemonde faced their unpleasant position almost with unconcern, seeming anxious about Juliana rather than herself.

“You think Doña Juliana is in no danger, then?” she inquired.

“Not a bit,” said Desmond cheerfully. “Arevalo was her chief peril. Prince Chan made threats against you, yes, but he’s the type to realize at this juncture that if he stops to amuse himself with the ladies he loses everything. He’ll want to get clear with the opium, that’s all. You and Juliana have little to hear from him— as things stand now.”

“Ah! Then there’s something to fear?” queried Rosemonde calmly.

“There may be. Thunder o’ Finn! If I was a Mohammedan now I’d carry off the both o’ you ladies!” and Desmond laughed gaily. “Upon me soul, Rosemonde, where would ever a man again find two such women?”

She looked at him, no warmth in her eyes. “Juliana spoke a good deal of you last night.”

“I’m glad o’ that,” returned Desmond complacently. “Did she increase your good opinion of me, fairy mistress?”

“Naturally she did. You are to be congratulated on your conquest. She is a fine girl.”

“Ah!” Desmond looked quickly at her. “What’s that again? Conquest, did you say?”

Rosemonde met his gaze very steadily. “My dear Mr. Desmond—”

“Thunder o’ Finn, don’t be using that tone o’ voice to me!” exclaimed Desmond. “Look here, now! It’s true as I’m a living man that I’ve never said a word of love to any woman but yourself, Rosemonde, and never will!”

A flush, as it were of anger, flooded into her cheeks, but her hazel eyes did not waver from his. In their depths Desmond read strange things, and sudden fear came upon him. What the devil had he said to Juliana, after all? Nothing extremely personal, he was sure of that much; nothing very serious or meant to be taken seriously. Nonetheless, he suddenly perceived shoals and dangers ahead.

“Boat comin’ out!” cried O’Sullivan at this juncture.

Desmond leaped up, glad of the intervention.

One of the boats was being shoved out by half a dozen men; Desmond recognized them for Manchus. The second boat was likewise being rolled down the sand, but this one by four only— Balderson and his three mates.

“That is Prince Chan jumping into the stern,” said Rosemonde.

Desmond nodded and turned to the fiddler.

“Michael Terence, me lad, will you be getting up into the stern with your gun now? Don’t fire until ye get the word from me, however.”

“Fight them off?” asked Rosemonde without alarm.

“I hope not.” Desmond squinted at the two boats, now leaving the shore, with a perplexed twinkle in his eye. “There’ll be no fighting, I hope. Still, ye can never tell. And it looks queer how they’re coming separate that way. Ahoy, there! What d’ye want?”

Balderson, rowing an oar with his mates, turned and glanced over his shoulder. Even his great voice could not be distinguished against the wind, however, and Desmond made a gesture beckoning on the boats. They drew closer, converging to within fifty feet of the schooner, when Prince Chan stood up and lifted his hands to his mouth.

“We are unarmed. May I come aboard?”

“Come ahead,” responded Desmond. Then Balderson likewise shouted:

“Me, too, Desmond! Huh? Don’t trust the chink!”

“Come ahead,” and Desmond smiled. Rosemonde touched his arm, frowning a little.

“What does it mean, then?”

“It means there’s trouble in their camp,” and Desmond laughed into her eyes. “Praise be, we’ll manage things yet! Keep your gun on the Manchus; I’ll watch the white men.”

“If you’re willing to trust them, all right.”

Weapon in hand, Desmond watched the two boats as they drew in toward the lowered port rail of the schooner. By the glances exchanged between the two craft he was convinced that trouble had arisen; what that trouble could be he was not aware.

“Balderson and Prince Chan, come aboard,” he said when the two boats were below. “If another man moves in either boat, we shoot.”

There was plenty of water over the reef to float the boats, and as they swung in the prince and Balderson stood up and clambered over the rail. Beyond making fast with hooks, the other men obeyed Desmond’s mandate.

“Good morning, Madame Burley,” said the prince in French, with a bow to Rosemonde. “This is Mr. Desmond? I am glad to meet you, sir.”

Balderson flung him a suspicious glance. The giant, his tangle of hair and beard floating over his shoulders in the wind, bit from a plug of tobacco and expectorated over the side.

“None o’ that chatter now,” he remarked. “Cards on the table, all hands!”

Desmond glanced from one to the other, his eyes twinkling.

“Come, gentlemen!” he exclaimed. “May I ask the reason for this friendly visit? You first, Prince Chan. I would suggest that ye speak in English also.”

The Manchu smiled blandly, scornfully.

“Very well. As you are aware, there is a lady ashore with us. I propose to return her to you unharmed. She has informed us of your activities yesterday. You see, Mr. Desmond, I do not underrate your ability, and not only shall I cancel the debt I owe you, but you shall be at liberty to depart wherever you desire.”

“Oh!” said Desmond. “You want us to vacate the schooner, no doubt?”

The prince bowed in silent assent. Desmond turned to Balderson.

“Well? What’s your proposition, Mr. Mutineer?”

Balderson’s eyes were like blue ice.

“Is Arevalo dead?”

“Dead and buried,” returned Desmond cheerfully.

“Then the chest belongs to us, ’cause we were partners with Arevalo in buyin’ the dope.”

“What chest?” queried Desmond.

“The chest o’ money that these yellow boys took ashore. Arevalo fetched it along to buy the dope, savvy? Let the chinks have the dope— we want the coin, huh!”

“Oh!” said Desmond. He leaned back and fumbled for his pipe. “A chest of money, eh?”

9

On The Beach

PRINCE CHAN, still wearing his black coat, although his linen was alarmingly soiled, looked blandly at Balderson; he gave no sign of emotion. The big Viking folded his arms and stared at Desmond.

“Oh!” said the latter, getting his pipe filled and lighted. “Now we can chat. Well, Balderson, why don’t you take the money if you want it?”

“With only one gun among the four of us, huh?” snapped Balderson. “Hand over some guns, throw in with us white men— and we’ll pull clear!”

“Thanks for your confidence,” and Desmond smiled slightly. “Why not hand over the money to Balderson, Prince Chan?”

“Because we want the money ourselves,” said the Manchu, chuckling. “Is not that very logical? Also, we are the strongest party.”

“Do you know where we are?” intervened Rosemonde.

“On Paracel Island, we believe,” said the prince. “Such, at least, is our guess. We have the place to ourselves.”

“Is that a threat?” demanded Desmond.

“By no means. Let us call it a warning, my dear sir.”

“Look here, you!” broke out Balderson with a vehement impatience. “Can’t you see what these chinks want? They want to put all of us out o’ the way, that’s what— so’s we can’t tell no stories! Give ’em this ship, and we’re gone once they get their guns on us! It’s all us whites in the same boat, Desmond; hang together and we got a chance. Huh?”

Desmond regarded the giant keenly, but made no response. After a moment he turned to Prince Chan. “Is this island inhabited?”

“No.” returned the Manchu.

“Listen, now, while I make ye a counter proposition. You send Doña Juliana aboard here right away, and one o’ these boats likewise. By two o’clock this afternoon we’ll leave the ship to you, opium and all, taking with us what stores we’ll need. That’s all. Does it suit?”

“I agree,” said the prince quietly. Balderson was purple with rage, but Desmond turned to the giant with a slow look.

“Mind your talk in the presence of a lady, me lad, or I’ll make ye do it! If you and your three mates want to go one with us, you’re welcome. I’ll desert no man. When we get picked up, o’ course, you’ll stand your chances of trial for mutiny—”

“Blast you!” cried Balderson, fury sweeping over him. “Won’t listen to me, huh? You throw in with them cursed chinks, and d’you know what’ll happen? All hands gets their throats cut, that’s what! And the ladies— what d’you think the chinks are layin’ for, huh? Women, you fool! See here, you lady! Are you willin’ to trust them chinks?”

This was an appeal direct, to Rosemonde. Prince Chan stood blandly oblivious of all that Balderson said, but his black eyes flickered slightly as he looked at Rosemonde. To her, also, looked Desmond. She appeared entirely unconcerned.

“I agree with whatever decision Mr. Desmond makes,” she said coolly.

“You’ll desert us white men?” cried Balderson. “Desmond, you and your fine talk—”

“You listen a moment,” cut in Desmond incisively. “Balderson, you’ve admitted that you and your friends were partners with Arevalo. You saw your owner and mate murdered; you had a hand in murdering your skipper last night; you helped Arevalo to carry off Miss Juliana. Now that Arevalo is dead and you’ve lost out, you come whining to me for weapons!”

Desmond rose. “Clear out, Balderson! I’ll give you nothing but the wrong end of a fist, you dirty scum! Put a hand to that gun in your pocket and I’ll murder you! Get ashore and keep out o’ my way. I want no help from a pack like yours, and I’ll give ye none. Thunder o’ Finn! If you’re not off this boat in two shakes, I’ll kick ye off!”

Balderson looked him in the eyes for a moment; then, with a single muttered oath, turned about and leaped into his boat. Desmond gestured to the prince.

“That’s all. Send out Miss Juliana and turn over a boat to us.”

With a curt inclination of his head, the prince assented and took his departure.

Scowling, Desmond watched the two boats pull toward the shore. It was obvious that Balderson and his three men were afraid of the Manchus and dared not try to make off with their boat.

“What will ye be tryin’ to do now?” piped up O’Sullivan. “Sure, it’s no small boat can live long in this wind! Look at the waves out yonder, now!”

Desmond turned, frowning. Both the fiddler and Rosemonde were watching him in anxious waiting; he read unrest and disquiet in their gaze.

“Don’t bother me askin’ what we’ll do next, Michael Terence,” he answered moodily. “Time enough for that when it’s due.”

“You think Prince Chan can be trusted?” asked Rosemonde.

“No farther than I can see him,” returned Desmond. “Will he let us get away to tell all that’s happened? Not if he can help it. Balderson was right enough about that.”

“Then— you’ll keep your word with him?”

“I will,” said Desmond doggedly. “Call us when ye see them coming with Juliana, and the fiddler and I will be getting out the stores. Come, Michael Terence! We’d best be movin’.”

Desmond, to be exact, thought the situation nothing short of desperate. He had no idea that the Manchu could be trusted and he would have nothing whatever to do with Balderson. His only chance, as he saw it, lay in putting Balderson into so much more desperate a position that Balderson and the other three would be driven to extreme measures. He rightly judged Balderson to be a dangerous man in action, whether Balderson would attempt any overt act against the Manchus, was another question.

“It’s a terrible temptation, Michael Terence,” soliloquized Desmond, as he and the fiddler got down into the lazaret and began breaking out stores. “Think o’ those heathen Chinamen, with a million in opium and a chest o’ gold! They’ll most likely bury the opium somewhere ashore until they can arrange to get it and dispose of it somehow. But the gold they can take away conveniently. No wonder Balderson’s mouth waters.”

“And no wonder he’s layin’ low,” added O’Sullivan. “Fifteen o’ them divils will fight like fifty when it comes to gold an’ opium. It’s not me that would be wanting to rob the likes of them! We should ha’ took up with Balderson, I’m thinkin’.”

Desmond grunted. “Fine business, that would have been. Balderson and his three mates are utter scum. If they took a notion to cut our throats and seize the ladies, they’d never bother about consequences. But the Chinese are canny men, and they look to the end. They’re safer to deal with.”

“Maybe and maybe not,” said the fiddler dubiously.

Together they got a pile of stores out of the lazaret, or run, and hauled them on deck. A they finished the task, there came from the tree-clad island the sound of a single shot, followed by silence. The shore was deserted, the two boats empty.

“Who’s shooting, I wonder,” observed Desmond while the fiddler and Rosemonde watched the shore with uneasy eyes. “Michael Terence, have that fiddle of yours ready to go ashore; don’t forget it and be having to come back after it, now! If it were not for Juliana, I’d swim ashore and haul off those boats.”

“But,” demanded Rosemonde, “what can we do after she is returned to us? We cannot put out to sea in a small boat— look at the waves outside the lagoon!”

“True enough. By tomorrow we can leave, and until then we’ll have to stay ashore. We can run up the shore inside the lagoon and find a likely place.”

Ten minutes later, Prince Chan and six of his men debouched from the trees, Doña Juliana accompanying them. Desmond saw that she had quite recovered from the fright which she must have suffered; she was talking and laughing with the prince, who was plainly endeavoring to make himself very agreeable.

“Thank Heaven for that!” said Desmond devoutly. “I was afraid she’d be a nervous wreck— well, Rosemonde! And what are ye laughing at now?”

“You,” retorted Rosemonde merrily, but refused to explain herself further.

The boat took in tow the second boat and drew out to the schooner. The latter was now heeling farther over, as the tide was ebbing, and her rail was not far from the water. When the boats came alongside, Desmond caught Juliana’s hand and brought her easily to the deck.

“Welcome home!” he cried. “It’s well you are? That’s good. If you’ll join Rosemonde and get your things packed up, we’ll be leaving presently. She’ll explain matters. Well, Prince Chan! How soon will ye have the ship?”

“Whenever you leave her,” answered the Manchu, looking up from his seat in the boat.

“What was that shooting ashore?”

“Balderson shot one of my men,” returned the other, his features placid and masked. “You had better be careful about going ashore; he and his comrades are in the bush.”

“Oh!” thought Desmond. “So you are already certain that we’ll go ashore, eh? That’s bad.” Aloud, he said: “Thanks for the warning. We’ll be gone in an hour. Think you can get the schooner off the rocks?”

Prince Chan smiled and shook his head.

“No. What could we do with her? What port could we enter? No, we shall attend to the opium and then depart in our boat. In an hour, then? Thank you. Au revoir!”

Desmond watched them rowing in toward the shore, a puzzled frown creasing his brow. The Manchu had spoken too openly, too frankly.

“Well?” said O’Sullivan. “The ladies are below, sir. What d’ye think that boy has been cookin’ up for us, eh?”

“Murder,” said Desmond, turning and meeting the piercing black eyes of the fiddler. “Murder, Michael Terence, and no less! He knows we’ll have to get ashore for a day or so. By that time they’ll have the stuff buried. They’ll finish us, to keep us quiet. Aye! We’re in a tight place, me lad. If ’twas you and me, now, I’d put out to sea in the boat, but we can’t do that wi’ the ladies.”

After a moment he continued, reflectively: “There’s something big to all this, me lad. Arevalo was a rich man in his way, and, mind you, he was buyin’ a million dollars’ worth of opium, roughly! Buyin’ it for a syndicate, most like, a syndicate of hellions like himself. But they couldn’t keep a million in a chest, not if it was in gold.”

O’Sullivan chuckled.

“By this an’ by that,” he said sagely, “I’ve a notion what’s runnin’ in your mind this minute, I have! If ’twas not for the ladies, now—”

Desmond rubbed his chin and smiled with sudden hope. “Listen, now! Doña Juliana has been cruelly wronged, isn’t it? Arevalo owes her somethin’. And Rosemonde the same. Besides, would it be right to let those yellow men steal all that money? It would not.”

The fiddler laughed wildly. “And there’s you and me, sir, into the bargain! Could we be doin’ it, now? As the skipper would say, it ’ud be a righteous deed.”

“Well see. Let’s be getting the stuff into the boat, lad.”

They were still working with the provisions when Rosemonde appeared and informed Desmond that Juliana wanted to see him. She was getting a few things together and had been acquainted with the situation.

Desmond passed below to the cabin, where he found Juliana, now wearing a gown of deep-yellow silk, making a bundle of her things. She faced him with a tragic gesture.

“We must leave all this— be abandoned?”

“Be glad you’re getting out of it safe, Miss Juliana,” returned Desmond. “We’ll have worse yet ahead, I’m afraid. The yellow men intend to murder us all if they can do it— they aim to catch us off guard later on.”

Her blue eyes flashed. “Ah! But you will prevent this?”

“I’ll be thinkin’ about it,” said Desmond whimsically. “Bless the sweet face of you! Was Prince Chan very entertaining?”

“He was a thorough gentleman,” she answered, albeit a trifle coldly. “He rescued me from those ruffians and was very polite.”

“Oh!” said Desmond and smiled into her eyes. “If anyone had foretold a month ago that you would be kidnapped and shipwrecked and have all these excitin’ adventures, would you have believed it? I’ll warrant not. It’s changed you, too.”

“How?” she demanded a bit suspiciously.

“Well, it’s put new life into your eyes, and a marvelous fine color into your cheeks, and the most wonderful—”

“This is neither time nor place for compliments, sir,” she broke in hastily, yet with no displeasure in her eyes. “May I ask when we are going ashore?”

“As soon as you’re ready,” said Desmond. “May I take this bundle?”

He stooped for it, and she stooped as hastily in order to tuck in sundry tag ends of lace. For an instant their hands touched. Desmond straightened up with the bundle and turned to the door.

“Come when you’re ready,” he said blithely and was gone.

Had he seen Juliana standing and gazing after him, a heightened color in her cheeks, her bosom rising and falling rapidly, and her blue eyes widening upon his departure, he might have been a trifle uneasy. But Desmond was oblivious.

He saw to loading the boat methodically. As he had anticipated, the mast and sail had been removed, and this confirmed his suspicions of the Manchu. However, Desmond got into the sail locker and located a spare spanker, which he turned over to the fiddler.

“Load it in, me lad; it’ll serve to shelter the ladies tonight. I’ll introduce ye to the mysteries of needle an’ palm tomorrow, and with the aid of an oar we’ll go away from here on the wings of the wind— if we go I have a notion that we’ll stop a while.”

Doña Juliana came on deck, and after getting her in the stern with Rosemonde, while Michael Terence carefully bestowed his fiddle case forward, Desmond took an oar and the two men shoved forth.

“It’s hardly the appropriate sort o’ shipwrecked party,” observed Desmond cheerfully, “since we’ve no outfit of weapons beyond four automatics and the natural battery of languishing orbs which you ladies possess. However, we’ll make the best of it and trust to luck for the rest.”

He guided their course northward, away from the boat which still lay upon the sands, and kept O’Sullivan at work until the lagoon, whose outer reef formed a breastwork for the entire length of the island, narrowed down. They were nearly a mile from the schooner by this time, and when at last he perceived a tiny creek that emptied itself into the lagoon, Desmond swung hard on his oar and headed for the shore.

As they pulled up the boat, O’Sullivan was taken with a fit of coughing. Desmond eyed him for an instant and caught a significant glance from Rosemonde.

“Run off with you, Michael Terence,” he said, “and make sure the vicinity is clear of Balderson and his murderin’ friends. I’ll be makin’ camp the while.”

The fiddler departed and vanished among the trees. Desmond began to unload the boar, at which Rosemonde came to help him, and later Doña Juliana. He chose a fair camping spot beside the creek and had the heavy work done long before O’Sullivan returned with word that there was no sign of other folk in the vicinity.

With the spare sail mounted on trees and oars as a canopy for the ladies, O’Sullivan played his fiddle when the sunset was crimsoning; and afterward, saying that the black mood was on him, set the fiddle under his arm and vanished along the shore to the north.

“He will not last long, poor man!” said Rosemonde softly. “His cough—”

“I know,” said Desmond, sucking at his dry pipe. “And he knows, too, more’s the pity!”

Doña Juliana leaned forward. “Did you ever see him smile? There’s something rarely beautiful in his eyes when he smiles. The soul, perhaps. And you say that he is not blind to his illness? Ah! That is unusual, I believe. Usually men are blind to the things that concern them so closely and deeply.”

Rosemonde looked at Doña Juliana. Under the darkening shadows the eyes of the two women met and held for a space, and in their gaze were strange things, strange depths and silences. Doña Juliana drew a long breath like a sigh.

“I’ll be leaving you,” and Desmond rose to his feet. “Good night, ladies. God be with you the night!”

He strode off into the darkness, whistling softly. But the two women did not speak after he had gone.

10

In The Night

DESMOND WAKENED at midnight, or shortly afterward. He and O’Sullivan had been stretched out in the sand; now, in the starlight, Desmond saw that the fiddler had disappeared. He lay quiet, wondering what had so distinctly awakened him.

There was still a steady wind blowing, rustling the palms and trees of the island, while the surf crashed and boomed unendingly from the reefs. Suddenly a thin, distant sound punctuated the boom of surf with sharp distinctness. That must be the second shot, thought Desmond, as he rose and pocketed the two pistols which had lain beside him. The sounds were too distant and slight to awaken the women, he reflected.

“What made Michael Terence slip off, and how long’s he been gone, now?” thought Desmond.

He strode off down the beach in the starlight, confident that things were happening at the other end of the island, or thereabouts. With the morrow, he felt, they might put to sea in the boat— but he was by no means anxious to put to sea until he had to. He had remembered that upon reaching the outer world he would be penniless, and the thought of Arevalo’s chest was very good to linger upon.

The beach, widened by the ebb tide, stretched before him like a white ribbon, bounded by the dark trees and the darker water; a phosphorescent glow marked the outer reef, and the white line of the surf there. Suddenly Desmond, looking at the reef, out of the tail of his eye saw something move on the beach behind him. He turned swiftly and saw a dark figure advancing. It was Rosemonde.

“I heard the shots, too,” she announced simply.

“Oh!” said Desmond. “I took for granted you’d watch over the camp while I was gone.”

She came closer, looked into his face, and suddenly broke into low, sweet laughter that was very joyous to hear. “You almost fooled me, monsieur.”

Desmond grinned, but a trifle ruefully. He had not thought that her brain was quick enough to catch his ruse.

“Come along, then,” he said. “We’d better keep in close to the trees, I’m thinking. Did you leave Miss Juliana asleep?”

“Sound asleep— and very beautiful. Did you ever see a more beautiful woman?”

“No,” said Desmond honestly. “But sheer beauty in itself doesn’t matter particularly. It’s character that counts, that makes beauty. I think, now, that if Juliana had the proper training, like a few months more o’ this sort of life, she’d be twice as beautiful. Her complexion might be spoiled, but she’d have more behind the complexion.”

“And you would like to educate her, then?”

“No! Will you stop twisting my words, now? I’d sooner be walkin’ along the sand here with you than educating all the beautiful women on earth!”

“You don’t count me among the beautiful ones?” questioned Rosemonde demurely. “Well, I admire your frankness, at least! Souviens-toi de ceci; on n’a que l’age que l’on parait—”

“Taisez-vous,” said Desmond suddenly, halting her with a touch on her arm. “There is something moving ahead—”

He was cut short by a low cry, a cry barely heard, yet appalling in its agony. It seemed to come from directly ahead of them, and an instant later a dark shape came staggering out upon the sand, to fall prostrate.

“Wait here,” commanded Desmond and ran forward.

He found himself stooping above a man— one of the Manchus— who had been stabbed terribly in the side. The man must have died as he uttered that low, wordless cry.

Desmond peered into the night. A dark mass offshore indicated the wreck of the San Gregorio; it was without a light, seemingly abandoned. But the second boat, which should have been drawn up on the sand, was gone. Desmond rejoined Rosemonde at the edge of the trees.

“I don’t understand this,” he said, perplexed. “That boat’s gone, yet the Manchus seem to be still ashore— that is one of them, stabbed to death.”

“Ah!” she exclaimed. “Then the big bearded man, this Balderson, has attacked the prince.”

“Will you return to the camp?” demanded Desmond, suddenly grave.

“Merci, non!”

“Then come.”

He set off across the sand, Rosemonde at his elbow, skirting the trees and seeking some sign of the encampment which he knew must lie in among the trees. Insensibly, Desmond quickened his stride until he was a few feet ahead of Rosemonde.

A shadow moved among the trees, a mere blot upon the blackness close at hand. A long finger of the shadow seemed to lick out at Desmond’s feet; tripped by the stick, he fell headlong. The first touch had warned him, although too late to save himself. As he plunged to the sand he flung out his arm; his automatic exploded. A dark figure that had sprung out upon Rosemonde, behind him, whirled and screamed once as it plowed into the sand.

That shot saved Rosemonde, but a heavy body hurtled out and fell full upon Desmond as he lay. Rosemonde, taken off guard by the sudden outleap into action, not yet comprehending the amazing swiftness of Desmond’s shot, stood above the dead man, staring at the twisting figures before her. She could not tell which was friend, which enemy.

The sense of smell, the faint raw scent of opium, told Desmond that the man above him was a Manchu. His pistol was useless, his arm gripped by the man’s knees; he doubled up, and a knife scraped past his side. Before the blow could be repeated, Desmond got his hand about the yellow neck, jerked the man forward across his body, and wrenched himself sideways. This freed his pistol arm, but he did not fire. Instead, as he squirmed up over the yellow man, he struck a queer oblique blow with the pistol, and then a second. After this, Desmond rose and shook the sand out of himself, while the throat of the Manchu blackened in a pool beneath the stars.

“It’s remarkable what ye can do with a pistol when the front sight is properly filed,” said Desmond calmly, stepping toward Rosemonde. No other assailants were in sight.

“Oh!” she gasped. “You’re not hurt? He stabbed—”

“Il n’y a rien de cassé,” returned Desmond. “They say in books that a man armed with a knife is at a positive disadvantage— and it’s true enough he is, after he’s missed his first lunge. The divil of it lies in makin’ him miss the first time.”

“Your bullet passed within a foot of me— after doing its work,” said Rosemonde.

“I know it,” answered Desmond contritely, “but I could not help it. Ye see, if you had not been here I could have attended to those fellows very decently, but havin’ to protect you as well as meself—”

“Would you feel better, then, if I returned to camp?” demanded Rosemonde.

“Heaven forgive me for savin’ it, but I would! Not that I think ye need protection, mind, but for me own peace of soul, because you’re the most distracting person I ever met, fairy mistress, and—”

“Very well,” she broke in. Turning abruptly, she started back along the shore.

Desmond looked after and rubbed his chin thoughtfully; she might be angry over her dismissal, but there was no help for it. He now wanted to take action upon his own account and was relieved that Rosemonde had returned.

He was wondering why two of the Manchus, and no more, had been here; also, what had become of their boat. His shot seemed to have attracted no attention. It might or might not have been heard through the sullen but heavy booming of the surf. For ten minutes Desmond cautiously skirted the trees, hearing nothing. The place might have been an island of the dead, but he knew very well that it was nothing of the kind. No moon was up, but the sky was clear as blue-black crystal, and under it the starlit waters and reef and beach— a rare beauty in it that clutched at Desmond’s throat. The lagoon, black yet faintly radiant with phosphorescence, the peculiar sheen of the foaming reef like greenish-white jade, the opalescent coral dust of the beach, where the very sands leaped and quivered with invisible tropic life—

“Damnation take it, I say!”

The words leaped out in front of Desmond like a bomb. He halted crouched low, waited.

“What’s his game, huh?” It was Balderson’s voice now, followed by a crashing of leaves. “He gives us a gun. All right. Why? What’s him and Desmond planning?”

A light broke upon the listener. So O’Sullivan had slipped off, had carried Balderson one of his pistols! Why? Desmond laughed softly to himself, plainly perceiving the fiddler’s strategy. O’Sullivan had been thinking, also, of Arevalo’s money— the chest which was acting as a pot of honey to flies— and had provided Balderson with an aid toward the killing of the Manchus. Balderson was set upon killing, no doubt of this.

“Dunno,” came a more sullen voice. “King and Billy are down to the south end, lookin’ for the boat; the chinks are lookin’, too.”

“There was nothing at Desmond’s camp huh?” queried Balderson.

“Nothin’,” responded the other. “One o’ them wimmen was stirring, so I didn’t stay. Their boat’s there, but not the other one. We can grab theirs at a pinch, I guess.”

Balderson rumbled his Viking laugh. “Not until daylight, Tom— not until daylight! That man Desmond will be watching, huh? Takes no chances. Too many surprises waitin’ at night, but in the daytime you can see what you’re doing. Find the chink you knifed, huh?”

“No,” growled the other. “But I got him right— plumb in the guts. Who was that shootin’ over here?”

“Dunno,” said Balderson. “King, maybe, or Billy. The chinks are all split up tryin’ to find their blasted boat. Where in hell is that chest gone, huh?”

“If we’d known earlier that they didn’t have no guns to mention,” said Tom, “we’d ha’ played hell with ’em! But that yellow devil bluffed us with his slimy talk. Maybe they sneaked that chest out to the schooner, Balderson.”

“Huh?” The big Viking’s voice was startled and bovinely thoughtful. “Mebbe so, Tom, mebbe so. Hadn’t thought of it. B’lieve I’ll swim me out there and see, huh? We know there ain’t none aboard. It’s like them chinks to take the chest out and stick her some’er’s, huh? Hide her away. Then they come ashore with some dope, and their boats get lost come night. Damn queer, huh?”

“Guess I’ll swim out with you,” said Tom. “Two can look better’n one.”

Crouching lower against the sand Desmond saw the two black shapes against the stars, passing within a few yards of him. There was nothing to be feared from Balderson for the present, obviously.

“It’s cleared up moss amazing all but the loss o’ the boat,” reflected Desmond. “All hands seem to be puzzled by that Thunder o’ Finn! Why didn’t I think to it meself? If it was Michael Terence, now, who stole that boat, he’s a genius! That’s why there were only two of the Manchu back there; the prince has split up his men searching for the boat. And he’s ashore, somewhere to the south of here, and inland. Also, the treasure chest is iron, like most of ’em are sooner or later. But it’s not aboard the wreck; it’s close to wherever Prince Chin himself is. And to think of the amazing divil having maybe two or three guns, no more, but bluffing all of us with his power!”

Turning abruptly into the trees, he headed across the island. There was little undergrowth; the trees were mostly of good size, the island being too low and storm-swept to admit of small growths. Consequently, Desmond found the progress easier than he had anticipated, the starlight aiding him greatly.

Again and again he paused, vainly listening for some guiding sound. There was no sign of a light or campfire. Prince Chin was lying perdu— where? Where was the fiddler, that mad, lovable, half-dying Irishman?

With the uncanny sharpening of the perceptions that comes with night and darkness, Desmond felt a sound. He heard nothing; but the slight, almost noiseless vibration of the air that touched his ear, was carried to his brain, and he halted instantly. Now the sound recurred, and he stood very motionless, holding down even his breathing. He sensed danger, and sensed it close at hand.

Not from the sound, however; he had already recognized that as the hacking cough of O’Sullivan. It was somewhere among the trees, not far distant— but it was muffled nearly to nothing. Then, as he stood listening, he caught the timbre of a voice on the night; no words, just the formless tone. But he also recognized that as the voice of Prince Chan, the Manchu.

Ah! A shadow materialized ten feet from him; a man was approaching him, silently, a blot against the stars. Desmond crouched low, moving an inch at a time, then crouched in absolute stillness. The dark figure came to within three feet of him and the flowing blouse betokened one of the Manchus, but not Prince Chan. For an instant Desmond saw the face, but the man turned about, listening. As he stood turned thus, Desmond rose and reached out with his reversed automatic. There was no sound beyond the slight thud. Catching the senseless man as he fell, Desmond searched him rapidly. He found two knives, heavy affairs with brutal steel-and-sharkskin handles, and took these; but no pistol. The man was a sentry. Somewhere beyond here was Prince Chan. Desmond delayed long enough to bind the man with strips of his own clothing, then rose and stepped forward. He had no doubt that O’Sullivan was with the Manchu prince.

Five minutes afterward, Desmond came upon the object of his quest. A treeless hollow, ten yards across, opened in front of him. A faint whiff of wood smoke told him that there had been a campfire here during the day, although it was now extinct. The black figures of four men showed themselves.

Prince Chan was speaking in English, his words carrying softly but distinctly:

“If he coughs, then muffle him; he cannot help the cough. But if he tries to call out, stab him at once. You understand perfectly, my man?”

“Divil fly away with you. I do!” answered the voice of O’Sullivan.

Desmond, aided by the voices, distinguished that the fiddler was lying down, probably bound, while Prince Chan and two more Manchus sat beside him.

“Will ye be giving me some dry clothes, now?” queried O’Sullivan, a shiver in his tone. “It’s a dying man I am unless—”

“You have been for a little swim?” came the purring Oriental voice. “It was you who stole that boat?”

“Yes, it was,” retorted O’Sullivan, defiant now. “And she’s gone where ye’ll not get her again, since I took her out beyont the reef on the ebb tide.”

There was an interval of silence, followed by an exchange of low conversation among the Manchus. Prince Chan again reverted to English, a smooth menace in his voice:

“You did this by Desmond’s order, my man?”

“Sure I did,” said O’Sullivan audaciously. “Did we not discover what ye planned to do with us? So we joined in with Balderson, if ye want to know the truth of it.”

“And Balderson has been killing my men tonight!”

“I hope to hell he kills the whole pot of ye!”

“Oh!” Prince Chan laughed softly, terribly. “And what do you expect me to do to you?”

O’Sullivan did not answer. At the edge of the clearing, Desmond took one of the two heavy knifes and drew back his arm. With a flick of his wrist he sent the knife high in the air, clear over the glade, to fall with a tinkling clatter among the trees on the other side the clearing.

11

Off!

AT THE SOUND occasioned by the falling knife the three Manchus leaped upright. But Desmond had already hurled the second knife, this time far to the right among the trees. As it crashed through the branches Desmond spoke unconcernedly and coolly.

“All set, Balderson? Very well. Don’t any of you fire until I give the word, because I want a little talk with the prince. Don’t move now, Prince Chan. You are covered three ways!” From the prostrate O’Sullivan came a long breath like a deep sigh.

There fell a momentary silence, broken again by Desmond’s voice.

“Cut my friend loose, prince. Then you step this way and we’ll have a chat. Don’t worry about the wet clothes, Michael Terence, the salt water won’t hurt if it dries on you.”

One of the standing figures stooped. A moment later O’Sullivan rose, stretching himself.

“What about that gun o’ mine?” he inquired.

“Prince Chan will give it to you. Then come over here.”

“Here is your weapon,” said the prince smoothly. The fiddler took it and sauntered toward Desmond. Behind him followed the prince, until Desmond halted him.

“That’ll do, me friend. Now, suppose ye tell us what was in that chest of Arevalo’s? Mr. Balderson thinks there was money to be had, and he’s uneasy.”

“Money?” repeated Prince Chan, staring at the spot where Desmond stood. “Yes. There was something like two-hundred-thousand dollars in American notes.”

“And where’s the chest now?”

The voice of the Manchu rose in querulous, shrill rage.

“May the gods curse you! It was made fast under the stern of the boat which this man set adrift—”

“None o’ your lies!” snapped Desmond angrily. “How could a boat be drawn up ashore—”

“Holy mackerel,” gasped O’Sullivan, now standing beside Desmond. “It’s the truth he speaks, sir— divil take me for a fool! The boat was anchored a few feet out from shore, and I noticed that she dragged in the water, like— oh, murder! And to think o’ me set tin’ her adrift an’ all! Mhuire as truagh on me for a fool!”

This astounding intelligence put a damper upon Desmond. He had intended to put Prince Chan under restraint, then to lie in wait for Balderson as the latter swam back from the wreck and, after this, to dictate terms. Now however, he had nothing left to fight for; the incentive was removed.

To take away any opium would be folly, since the stuff was contraband everyhere, and he had no ambitions to smuggle it. Arevalo’s chest was another matter, however. It was lawful loot, and now it was floating somewhere out upon the deep, carefully set adrift by O’Sullivan.

“I could take a boot to ye, Michael Terence,” said Desmond severely, “but I will not. ’Twas all innocently ye acted and for the best.” Leaning over, he put his lips to the ear of the fiddler. “Back to camp with ye as fast as legs will carry you, me lad! Wake the ladies and get the stuff into the boat. We’ll have to get out of this in a hurry. Run! And look out for Balderson; he was over at the wreck last I saw of him.”

O’Sullivan chuckled to himself, then faded into the background.

“I’ll not bother ye further, prince,” said Desmond. “I believe it’s the truth you’re telling about the money; serves you right for hiding it from me. The wreck is yours, so make the most of it. As for Balderson—”

“May the tenth hell swallow you!” cried out Prince Chan, sudden intuition giving him the truth of Desmond’s ruse. Turning, the prince ran furiously across the clearing toward the point at which the supposed Balderson was concealed. Desmond laughed, seeing the two other Manchu join their prince. As the three reached the opposite trees, however, there was the flash and sharp report of a shot; Desmond felt the wind of the bullet.

“Ah, ye would, ye slick divil!” He fired, and again. Then, whirling, he set back toward the beach at a run, ignorant whether his bullets had reached a mark.

“There’ll be the divil to pay now, and no mistake!” he reflected as he steered a devious course among the trees. “Our boat is the only one available, and all three sides will want it. Whoever gets it first will stand a chance o’ finding the other boat; she can’t be far off now—”

He had come to the edge of the trees, and there he paused, startled by the scene before him, where the white sand stretched down to the lagoon.

Rising out of the water’s edge were two figures, and foremost of them was Balderson. About his tangle of hair had been wrapped his pistol belt, and he looked like some wild Poseidon upheaved by the sea, his great beard dripping over his chest.

“Balderson!” Desmond started forward. “Get to cover, you fool! The yellow men are after me hot! I shot two of ’em. I’ve no love for ye, but unless ye want to be murdered look out for yourselves—”

Balderson and his companion promptly rushed for shelter of the trees. Desmond slipped off to the left, confident that for the moment they would not trouble him, and then took to his heels.

It was his hope to get clear away from the island without further encounters. As soon as Balderson discovered the boat to be gone entirely there would ensue a three-cornered fight for possession of Desmond’s craft, and Desmond meant to get away before Prince Chan could gather his men for an attack. The money was a secondary affair.

“Michael Terence certainly put his foot in it tonight,” he reflected as he ran. “To steal the boat was a prime notion, but the lad went a step too far; then the chest of money under her stern settled everything. If we can get off, we might pick up the other boat ourselves, but for the sake o’ the ladies we’ll get off.”

When he reached the camp, he found O’Sullivan hustling their supplies back into the boat and Rosemonde emerging to lend a hand. A moment later Doña Juliana left the shelter, which Desmond promptly stripped from its supports.

“I’ve no time to be talkin’ now,” he exclaimed hurriedly. “Roll down the boat, Michael Terence! A minute’s delay may mean all of us with our throats cut.”

The two men shoved the boat at the water, the women watching in silent anxiety. Then, with the last of the dunnage loaded in, Desmond left the fiddler to hold the craft while he returned for the ladies. He picked up Doña Juliana with a word of apology for his haste and waded out with her to the bow; but Rosemonde had followed, careless of the knee-deep water, and was climbing into the stern sheets before Desmond could assist her.

“All right, Michael Terence!” exclaimed Desmond as he clambered in. “Straight out to the reef, me lad; there’s an opening in it almost opposite us. Quick, now!”

At each instant he expected to hear bullets singing out from shore, but the long oars urged the boat out toward the reef, and there was no alarm. The island remained black and silent. While he rowed, Desmond gave a brief exposition of the situation for the benefit of his companions.

“Easy up, now,” he admonished O’Sullivan. “The reef opening is just ahead. Miss Juliana, will you have the kindness to lean over the bow and keep watch for rocks? We’ll have to watch over our shoulders and may miss a few. All right, Michael Terence— pull!”

The oars dipped and gripped. The boat roared down into a hollow between the seas, her bottom scraped, then she was ascending the next sea with a surging hiss of foam, and with two strokes they were out beyond the reef.

“Thank the saints!” muttered Desmond. “Now let ’em fire all they wish! Where did ye leave that boat, me lad?”

“What boat?” demanded Rosemonde, knowing nothing of the treasure.

“The other one,” and Desmond laughed softly. “Pull ahead, Michael Terence! She can’t be far away— down near the other reef opening, mostlike. Keep watch for an empty boat, ladies!”

The ladies made no response. The island had become formless, a vague black shape which closed sea and sky, and which was still entirely devoid of any light or sound.

Desmond knew that the other boat could not have drifted far. Being high in the water, the set of the wind would naturally hold her back toward the reel, as would the attraction of the land. Besides, it was unlikely that O’Sullivan had taken her far out, as he confessed himself to be no great swimmer and had been afraid to venture far.

“I see something!” called Juliana softly from the bow. “Off to the left, something black on the water—”

“Right,” added Desmond, getting a glimpse of the thing himself. He felt no strong excitement over the possibility of finding the treasure; merely a laughing recklessness. Money of itself meant too little to him for the thought to rule in his mind.

“Now ahead of us!” cried Doña Juliana quickly. “Be careful—”

They slid down a long wave, and with a final tug on his oar Desmond sent them alongside an empty boat that loomed suddenly from the darkness. He rose and pulled the other craft around until he could get at its stern.

Ah! There was a rope, cunningly fastened— and another; from them a square box. No large affair, this; only a box two feet by one, of narra or ironwood. Getting a secure grip upon a handle which his fingers encountered, Desmond cut the lines with his knife and hauled the box aboard.

“Done!” he exclaimed, tossing it at the fiddler’s feet. “We’ll open it by daylight, me lad—”

“What’s in it?” asked Rosemonde.

“Ah, that’s a surprise!” Desmond chuckled. “Eh, Michael Terence? A bit of a surprise, if our luck holds good. Get the mast and sail out o’ that boat now. We’ll leave ’em this canvas, for I’ve no time to be bothered with it—”

“See here!” exclaimed O’Sullivan, who was trembling with mingled cold and excitement. “Is it goin’ to leave them the other boat ye are? And where are we goin’ to, anyhow?”

Desmond laughed. “Going? D’ye know that by tomorrow night we’ll reach the mainland, or before? Coast o’ China, Michael Terence; whether it’s French China or the real thing I don’t know nor care. Sure, we’ll be leavin’ them this boat. Let ’em fight for it if they can swim out and get it. All aboard now! Catch this spar and sail out—”

“We’re going out to sea and to China?” demanded Doña Juliana, awe in her voice.

“We’re nearly to China now, mo cuisle,” returned Desmond with infectious gaiety. “And by tomorrow night, praise be, we’ll have finished the trip.”

“But these waves— these mountains of water—”

“Sure, they’re just mountains of water, and who’s afraid of water? Get ye some dry clothes, Michael Terence. Rosemonde, have ye dry stockings and shoes? Then we’ll give you and Miss Juliana the fore part o’ the craft, once we get the sail up, and you’ll have the best going in the way o’ privacy, fairy mistress of me heart! To work, Michael Terence!”

As he dragged the mast and sail from the other boat he uttered a sharp exclamation and paused suddenly. From the dark line of the island came the crack of a pistol; close upon this came a second shot, and then silence again.

When the dawn lightened over Paracel Island, bringing the reef and shore and trees into faint relief against the dark western sky, it showed a dark head bobbing out beyond the reef. This bobbing head approached a larger black mass floating upon the waves and merged with it.

Meantime, aboard the wreck of the schooner, three men were busily engaged packing a common seaman’s chest with small, gaudily labeled tins. As the dawn lightened they broke off work at a hail from the shore. It was Prince Chan who hailed, and Balderson stood in the rigging to make answer.

“What you want, huh?”

“We’ve found the boat.” answered the Manchu.

An oath fell from Balderson. “Got the chest, did you?”

“No. Desmond had taken it and left the boat floating. Throw in the opium and we’ll take you into partnership.”

“Hell!” spake one of the three men to Balderson. “What’ll he do with the dope?”

“Answer quickly,” floated the suave voice of the prince. “We must leave at once. We have sighted the sail of Desmond’s boat, and he is heading due west. We can dispose of the opium if we reach the French-China coast, but only in small quantities.”

“Throw in with ’em!” advised the man King. “They got Billy, but we got a few of them to even up. There’s seven of them and three of us. Let’s go.”

“All right,” boomed Balderson’s voice. “Bring your boat along and load up. We agree.”

Half an hour later, the boat, under a sail rigged by Balderson’s deft hands, bore out from Paracel Island and rounded the southern end. Sunrise was breaking. In the boat were crowded seven Manchus and the three white men. Amidships was the seaman’s chest with its load of five-tael opium tins.

The morning was half gone when, as the boat topped a great wave, Balderson stood erect in the stern and gazed westward.

“After ’em!” he cried, his yellow beard afloat in the wind. “We’ll not catch up, huh? But we’ll be on their heels.”

“That’s very good,” said Prince Chan, smiling thinly. “The money will be easily divided. And the women will—”

“I want the one we agreed on, remember?” scowled Balderson.

“Of course,” agreed the suave Manchu. “And I want the other one, certainly!”

The two men grinned each at the other, and Balderson reflected that chinks were human beings after all.

12

O’Sullivan Puts His Foot In It

INSTEAD OF REACHING the mainland within ten hours, as Desmond had hopefully stated, the boat was two days at sea. It was not until close to sunset of the second day that she came into the river mouth under the headland of Faifoo. Only thirty kilometers to the north was Tourane, but Desmond, being no seaman, was glad enough to see a civilized town where he struck land. True, Faifoo was purely Chinese in looks and population— one of the strange bits of northern civilization that may be found set down as disjointed points in Annam— but it was nonetheless civilized. The natives in the fishing sampans spoke French after their fashion, and at the landing quay French was the universal tongue.

During these two days the situation aboard the boat had become tinged with a vague unpleasantness— at least, so far as Desmond was concerned. In Arevalo’s chest he had found an even two-hundred-thousand dollars in bank notes. When he spoke of dividing this Doña Juliana had with much dignity refused any share of it except a sum sufficient to take her home to Manila; she stated frankly that she was wealthy and did not need it.

Rosemonde likewise refused.

“It is true that I am a nurse,” she said with a touch of hauteur, “but I am so by choice and not by necessity, Monsieur Desmond! Thank you. I prefer to do without it.”

Desmond had no knowledge whatever that, while he had slept, Michael Terence O’Sullivan had entertained the two ladies with a life history of Sir Gerald Desmond which was largely fable, but true enough to facts to leave the baronet dead broke. Thus Desmond could not understand the double refusal to touch the money.

“Then it’s between us, Michael Terence,” he said finally. “Shut up the box and stow it away, me lad, and we’ll settle it when we get ashore.”

He was quite well aware that in landing at any civilized port their story was going to create a sensation— and the chest of money was going to create suspicion. Therefore, when they discovered at the Faifoo quay that it was taken for granted they were a coasting party of visitors from Tourane, Desmond was hugely relieved. He saw difficulties vanishing, no port officer being in evidence, and he made inquiries about a hotel.

There was no hotel, it proved, except one kept by an Annamese; however, two rooms for guests were maintained at the Résidence, which the quay porters recommended. The French resident being in charge of the place, Desmond knew that the ordeal must be faced. So, hiring porters to carry the ironwood box and their other effects, he gave the word and they started across the Chinese city.

“Leave the talking to me,” said Rosemonde as Desmond was bemoaning the inquisition which would come. He began now to realize why Captain Canaughan had been daunted by the same predicament.

“Leave the talking to me, and it will be arranged. I have my papers and a tongue.”

“But I must go back to Manila!” exclaimed Doña Juliana, giving Rosemonde a look that was by no means sweet. “If you tell them a host of lies there will be trouble—”

Rosemonde tossed her chin in air. “Ho! Lies? Mais, non! I shall tell them the exact truth— only I shall leave out whatever I desire. You shall go back safely, Doña Juliana, but remember you cannot go from here. We must go to Tourane, and then to Haiphong or elsewhere to catch a Manila boat. We cannot hasten matters.”

Desmond perceived with growing uneasiness that there was a distinct coldness between the two ladies. He unfortunately commented upon it and deplored it, and the chill grew more observable. O’Sullivan, meantime, was walking close behind the porter who carried the box containing two-hundred-thousand in cash.

Upon reaching the Résidence, the dusk of evening settling upon the town, the party was met by Monsieur Jacquard, the resident. He proved to be a burly, bearded Frenchman, more artist than political agent who received them with open arms and exceeding great courtesy. His wife took charge of Rosemonde and Doña Juliana; he himself conducted Desmond and O’Sullivan to a room, and at sight of the latter’s fiddle case he cried out joyfully, for he himself was a musician.

Supplied with razors, clean clothes, and all things necessary, Desmond and the fiddler set about making themselves presentable. They purposely delayed progress, however, in order that Rosemonde might have an opportunity to settle matters. At length, looking like new men in their “whites,” and leaving the ironwood box tucked away beneath a cot, they followed a native boy to the library, where Rosemonde and their genial hosts awaited them. Doña Juliana, it seemed, was prostrated by a severe headache and did not appear.

“The formalities are finished— the story is told— and I congratulate Monsieur Desmond upon reaching safety,” said the resident. “What a tale! It is a veritable epic. And now let us dine, my friends; if the salt has not hardened the gay fingers of Monsieur O’Sullivan, we shall have music later.”

“If ye knew what was in that box upstairs there’d be music,” murmured the fiddler, upon Desmond’s translation. The Jacquards knew no English, and O’Sullivan knew no French, which was perhaps just as well.

While they dined, amid the sparkling silver and lights of the Résidence, another small boat had moored beside the one which they had lately abandoned at the landing quay. A brisk interchange of Chinese, and its crew, bearings a seaman’s chest in their midst, vanished among the winding, twisting streets of the Chinese city. Behind them, their boat slowly settled and sank; the plug had been knocked out. Only coolies had observed their arrival, and these would say nothing of it.

Desmond, from the table talk, divined that Rosemonde had pictured the schooner as wrecked on Paracel Island, whither the Chang Yan had put in for water; and that she had accompanied Desmond and the others in the schooner’s boat, after finding that the junk would remain at the island to repair damages caused by the hurricane.

There was room for disquiet, however, chiefly because of Doña Juliana. Desmond regretted the seeming lack of harmony that existed and was at a loss for a reason. However, finding himself engaged in entertaining the fat and placid Madame Jacquard, he gave up all other thought and devoted himself to his hostess with some success.

After dinner O’Sullivan tinkered with his fiddle, Monsieur Jacquard opened his piano, and these two gave themselves up to the universal language of music. Madame Jacquard departed to visit Doña Juliana with motherly solicitude, and Desmond found himself with Rosemonde, unheeded by the two musicians.

“You look melancholy, my Irishman!” said Rosemonde, smilingly inspecting him.

“And why not?” demanded Desmond dolefully. “Here we’ve won out, and what’s the end? You and Juliana unpleasant to each other, me and the fiddler wondering at it, and every one unhappy all around. Thunder o’ Finn! If I could understand women—”

Rosemonde tittered a trill of gay laughter. Then she sobered quickly.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” she returned gravely. “Do you know what’s wrong with that poor girl upstairs? She’s ill with shame and love and heartsickness over your brutality. Mon Dieu! You’ve treated her with a cold politeness— ugh!”

“Divil take it!” exclaimed Desmond astonished. “Would you have the nerve to insinuate that she— she—”

“Loves you?” broke in Rosemonde coolly. “Of course she does. Any fool could see it. And you’ve flirted outrageously with her.”

“I have not,” said Desmond flatly, a slow flush rising to his brow. “I’ve said no more than am man would say to a pretty girl upon me word! It’s you that I think of by day and night, Rosemonde—”

“You have no lack of assurance,” she said eying him with a cold appraisal. “Besides why?”

“Why?” repeated Desmond, perplexed.

“Mais oui— pourquoi?” If there was a smile in her eyes he failed to see it. “I am an old woman—”

“You’re twenty two, for ye told me so yourself,” interpolated Desmond.

“La! I am a widow, and who loves a widow? A poor broken thing—”

“Listen to me now!” Desmond leaned forward. “Fairy mistress, why will ye be tormenting me so? I love you with all me soul— and it’s not the outside of you that I love most, Rosemonde; it’s all of you! It’s the flaming spirit that makes you! Maid, wife, or widow, I’d love ye all the same. Praise be what difference does the past make to the future?”

Rosemonde listened, a sudden whiteness in her face as the earnest force of Desmond’s appeal reached her with its conviction. At this instant however the music ceased and Monsieur Jacquard whirled his piano stool about with a triumphant flourish.

“Mes amis, is our duet satisfaction?”

“Admirable!” responded Rosemonde with enthusiasm.

“Teach him to play Shan Gow’s hornpipe me lad,” suggested Desmond hopefully, but Rosemonde, stifling a yawn, stated that she meant to retire. Madame Jacquard appeared, and the two departed in company.

The good lady returned presently with word that Doña Juliana would be none the worse in the morning and promised a speedy recovery from her trying experiences. Desmond talked over the situation with the resident, and ascertained that the best means of reaching Tourane and civilization would be to await the next coastal steamer, which would be in three days’ time.

“Of course,” commented Jacquard with a shrug, “you might summon an automobile from Tourane, or you might take a sampan from here. However, we shall be only too happy to have all of you with us for a day or two, and I think the ladies need the rest.”

“Agreed and many thanks to you,” assented Desmond. With sudden panic he realized that at Tourane their paths would part, Rosemonde would go to her nursing station at Ben Ho.

“And you will return to Manila with Doña Juliana I presume?”

“No,” said Desmond. “I’m going to America. When I was playing in hard luck some time ago I swore that I would become an American and, now that my luck has turned, I shall keep the vow.”

“Congratulations!” said the good resident an intense admirer of l’Amerique. “But we must not keep these gentlemen from their needed rest, my dear. I trust that a bed will be acceptable, eh?”

“It’ll be Paradise,” and Desmond smiled with an effort. He was thinking about Rosemonde and her words regarding Doña Juliana.

When he and the fiddler were alone in their room, Desmond turned suddenly to his friend.

“Look ye now, Michael Terence!” he said gravely. “I have a question to ask of ye, for it’s an observant man ye are, and I want ye to tell me the truth. Have I been actin’ toward Miss Juliana in any but a gentlemanly fashion.”

The pinched features of the fiddler passed from astonishment into admiring perplexity.

“Ah, have ye now!” said O’Sullivan. “And who’d be blaming you, sir? Sure, the lady has the starlight in her eyes, and ceol sidhe in the sweet voice of her—”

“Devil take ye!” muttered Desmond angrily. “Listen to me, will you? Have ye seen any signs that the lad’s had a kind spot in her heart for me?”

“And who wouldn’t, sir? Where’s the colleen would not listen to the likes of you now? If there’s any finer, handsomer gentleman on this side the world that—”

“Thunder o’ Finn! Shut your face and go to bed!” roared Desmond, turning out the lamp to cover his mingled anger and confusion. He rolled in for his first real nights sleep in some time and managed to forget his troubles in the arms of Morpheus.

With the morning, he was amazed and overjoyed to find that the sky was clear. Around the breakfast table were gathered the entire party, Doña Juliana met him with a smiling greeting and a warm handgrip, while she and Rosemonde had plainly adjusted all differences.

“Spendin’ the night together did them good, for they’re thick as thieves this morning,” he reflected. “But whether it did me any good is another question.”

The resident, who with his clerical assistants comprised almost the entire French group in the city, devoted himself to his guests. Rosemonde and Doña Juliana spent the day shopping with Madame Jacquard, while Desmond and O’Sullivan accompanied their host upon a rickshaw tour of the place.

Somewhat to his surprise, Desmond discovered that this unknown city of Faifoo possessed not only antiquity, but history, having been conquered both by Chinese and Japanese. The fiddler, however, took but small interest in ancient temples and ruins, and at the Nippon bashi decided to return to the Résidence and make some obscure and vague repairs to his fiddle case. Desmond acquiesced, for he guessed that O’Sullivan was uneasy about leaving the ironwood treasure box alone.

Upon returning home with the resident however, Desmond went at once to his room and was astonished not to find O’Sullivan there. Before he had time to call one of the native boys, Monsieur Jacquard appeared at the door, looking much perturbed.

“Monsieur Desmond! I— ah— your friends request your presence in the garden,” he exclaimed with some hesitation. “There appears to be unhappiness in the air, alas! Me, I confide it to you, I find there is always lack of ease where the ladies are concerned and—”

Desmond was finding the same thing He sought the little garden around which the Résidence was built, and there discovered Michael Terence O’Sullivan and Doña Juliana. Desmond stifled a groan, for Juliana had plainly been weeping, and the fiddler looked extremely disconcerted.

“Me voici, as the divil said to Faust,” greeted Desmond with forced lightness. “Well, my friends? And what’s been bringing the tears to your sweet eyes, Miss Juliana? Has this wild fellow been giving you any of his blather—”

Doña Juliana held out her hand, her eyes meeting the gaze of Desmond with a misty tenderness.

“Dear Mr. Desmond!” she said quietly. “I have never thanked you for all your kindness and help— but believe me, I am not ungrateful! What with the danger and grief for my poor father—”

“Ah, don’t worry yourself with little things, sweet lady!” said Desmond quickly and lifted her hand to his lips. “The honor of serving you is enough to make any man happy, and it’s proud I am of the honor.”

“Thanks and friendship are so little to give in return for such help as yours!” said Juliana, a faint smile lighting through her tears. “It seems now like some awful dream, and you and Mr. O’Sullivan have been such good angels that I shall pray for you always— and please, please be kind to me in your thoughts.”

Disengaging her hand, Juliana turned away swiftly and departed.

Desmond watched after her until she was gone; then he whirled. O’Sullivan met his eyes with an obvious uneasiness.

“Well?” said Desmond. “And what’s the meanin’ of all this, if you please? What’s been botherin’ Miss Juliana, anyhow?”

“I was doin’ me best for you, sir,” said the fiddler anxiously.

“What’s that? What d’ye mean?”

“Well, I minded what ye said to me last night about the lady an’ all, so I did be puttin’ in a good word for ye, sir. How was I to know it ’u’d bring the tears to her sweet face now? And the more I said—”

“Oh, the divil—” Desmond gasped, wordless for a moment. Before the anger that swept into his face poor O’Sullivan turned him about and fled incontinently.

A groan broke from Desmond as he realized that the blundering O’Sullivan had entirely misunderstood their talk of the previous evening. He started wrathfully after the fiddler, then checked himself. The dumb reproach of O’Sullivan’s eyes smote him.

“Thunder o’ Finn!” he exclaimed in dismay. “Now he’s put me into hot water and no mistake; there’s no tellin’ what the honest fool has been sayin’ to her. But it’s me own fault for not makin’ the matter clear to him; he meant it for me own good, bless his floundering heart! I can’t find it in me soul to be chiding him.”

Accordingly he sought his room, and at sound of his cheerful whistle the fiddler’s pinched features assumed a grin of delight that all was well. Nor could Desmond bring himself to tell O’Sullivan the disturbing truth.

13

Personally Conducted

DINNER was just being concluded that evening when Monsieur Jacquard was summoned from the coffee and cigars with word that a gentleman wished to speak to him on business.

The ladies had departed to the parlor. Desmond and O’Sullivan smoked for a few minutes, when their host reappeared, bringing with him a Chinese clad in spotless flannels, whose French was better than that of Desmond.

“This is Monsieur Mow Jung, of Tourane,” and at the resident’s introduction Mow Jung bowed and shook hands. “He arrived here this afternoon on his way north and chanced to hear about the arrival of your party. As he is going on to Tourane tonight he has most kindly offered to place his craft at your disposal. This is naturally a question for your decision.”

Desmond, of course, had no earthly suspicion that any other survivors of the San Gregorio had reached Faifoo. He had been perfectly willing to break into his packages of bank notes in order to secure a general passage home.

This courtly offer of a passage up to Tourane surprised and gratified him, not for the slight savings in money, but because the French coasters were not elegant boats; besides, it offered another day of intimacy with Rosemonde, which would have been hard to find aboard a coaster.

Therefore he considered the matter. Monsieur Mow Jung was very urbane and smiling and made himself distinctly agreeable; his boat was a schooner operating under power, and the party could have the entire rear cabins to themselves. The resident knew of Mow Jung as a merchant of Tourane and believed him to be reliable.

Desmond led the way to the parlor and put the case before Rosemonde and Doña Juliana. They promptly seized the chance to avoid the publicity of the steamer trip the more so as Mow Jung seemed to be very much a gentleman. He offered to delay starting until sunrise and promised to land them in Tourane in time for luncheon. And upon this his kindness was warmly thanked and his offer accepted Monsieur Jacquard undertook to set the party aboard the schooner before seven in the morning, and Mow Jung, with many bows, took his leave.

The resident now summoned O’Sullivan to the music room, while his wife departed with Rosemonde and Doña Juliana to get their packing done and secure a good night’s rest. Desmond, after vainly endeavoring to tempt Rosemonde into a stroll in the garden, bade them good night and settled himself moodily by the piano with a cigar.

Halfway through the first selection, O’Sullivan broke a string. Monsieur Jacquard left off playing until the fiddler had tuned up, and O’Sullivan, while testing his new string, evoked a cadence that drew a cry of applause from their host. But O’Sullivan lowered his violin with a white look about his lips.

“What the divil be makin’ me play that now?” he exclaimed.

“Again!” cried Monsieur Jacquard and seated himself at the piano “Ah— a gigue—” and he began an accompaniment. O’Sullivan tucked the fiddle under his chin and played for an instant then shook his head.

“Tell him that it’s a bad tune to be playing now,” he implored Desmond. “Bad luck to it! Whatever drove it into me head I can’t see.”

“What was it, then?” demanded Desmond laughing as he checked Monsieur Jacquard.

“It was the caoine o’ the banshee, if ye must know,” said O’Sullivan sourly. “And it’s bad luck for me, if not for you.”

Their host shrugged his shoulders when Desmond had interpreted, and without protest swung into a lilting air that made O’Sullivan forget all about his banshee music for the remainder of the evening. Nor did the fiddler make further reference to it at the time.

WITH DAYBREAK the hospitable Jacquards provided an excellent breakfast, together with a basket of luncheon in case the arrival at Tourane was delayed, and insisted upon accompanying their guests to the wharf. The farewells were brief, for Mow Jung was impatient to get under way. A handshake, an exchange of Gallic embraces, and the lines were cast off.

The boat proved to be a delightful surprise in that she was clean and free of the myriad pests of the nautical tropics. Besides Mow Jung, four men were visible, the engine was churning away, and at a good clip the schooner passed the river bar, rounded the head land, and struck out for the north with a flood of sunrise gold transforming her into a craft of faerie.

“We’re off on the last lap!” exclaimed Desmond, but none too cheerfully, as they headed north. “Will you show us to the cabins, Monsieur Mow Jung? The ladies might like to open their effects.”

O’ Sullivan had long since vanished below in the wake of the ironwood box, to which he clung like a burr. Mow Jung stepped to the companionway and, with a smiling caution to the ladies to mind the ladder, passed downward. Doña Juliana followed, but as Rosemonde set foot on the ladder, Desmond touched her arm.

“Rosemonde, will ye give me half an hour in private? I want to speak to you out on the deck under the white sunlight, fairy mistress. It’s the last chance I’ll have, mostlike—”

For a long moment she met the level gaze of his blue eyes, and a smile crept into her face. But Desmond could not interpret this smile.

“Surely, Monsieur Desmond, you have deserved that slight favor. If you think Doña Juliana will not be jealous at least.”

“Plague take it!” muttered Desmond. “I wish she’d think more of herself and less of Miss Juliana! And it’s remarkable what friends they are now, those two—”

He broke off to follow the others.

Gaining the passage below, he found Mow Jung ushering the two ladies into a stern cabin, cramped in space, but lit by the deck skylight into cheerful seeming. The urbane Celestial turned to Desmond with a smile.

“Your friend, I think, is in the other cabin— the door to your left. I regret that we have so little space to offer, but since the journey will be so short, perhaps that will not be an inconvenience.”

To Desmond, as he turned toward the indicated door, it occurred that Mow Jung’s smile was a trifle too urbane, too suave— as though the smooth words concealed some cunning double entendre. But he laughed at the thought, telling himself that of late he had grown too suspicious, and flung open the door.

Of what then occurred he had only a very vague notion. A flaming report burst out in front of him; a crushing weight seemed to strike through his chest with agony, and the acrid fumes of powder gripped his throat. He felt himself falling helplessly, and his last thought was a wonder whether O’Sullivan had murdered him for the sake of the ironwood chest. At the thought he tried to laugh in dumb misery— and knew no more.

“COULDN’T TAKE no chance with him, huh?” A huge figure stooped above Desmond’s body. “Open up that port an’ let some light in here.”

A port was opened, lighting the darkened cabin. Balderson straightened up above the prostrate Desmond, the latter’s automatic in his crimsoned hand.

“He’s done, huh? Where’s the box?”

In the light were disclosed the shapes of Balderson, his two remaining comrades, and Prince Chan; no others had been able to crowd into the little cabin. Upon the lower of the two bunks against the wall lay Michael Terence O’Sullivan, firmly bound and gagged; above the rag that gagged him his dark eyes gazed in lurid horror upon the scene.

“Where’s the box, huh?” repeated Balderson.

Prince Chan had been drawing something from beneath the bunks; it was the ironwood chest. About it was a rope which O’Sullivan had tied to replace the burst lock.

“All correct, I think,” said the Manchu unexcitedly. “Have you a knife?”

At the sound of a stifled scream from somewhere aft, Balderson half turned to the door.

“The women! Mebbe we’d better see to them first—”

“My friends have already attended to them,” and Prince Chan laughed smoothly.

“Aw, hell!” broke in one of Balderson’s men. “Make sure o’ the coin, first, you fool!”

Balderson stroked his yellow beard with his bloody paw and nodded. His third man had already passed a knife to the Manchu, who stooped and cut the line that held the box. Crowding in upon him, the others pressed him close as they hurled up the lid.

The ironwood box was empty.

With a roaring oath of wild fury, Balderson swung up the automatic which he still held. Prince Chan was staring at the empty box stupefied; the giant’s weapon brained him before he had dreamed of treachery. As his body tumbled across the box the two men whirled on Balderson.

“Good Lord, Baldy!” cried one, aghast. “He ain’t double crossed us. It was this harp that come with the box. Now them chinks will croak us—”

Balderson roared with mad laughter, born not of mirth, but of fury unutterable.

“Did ye think he was goin’ to let us live, huh?” he snarled. “Now we got to clean out the chinks— all of ’em— then take this blasted hooker and head south. We can foller the coast to the Bangkok River, and once in Siam, we’re safe. Get me? Safe with the opium an’ all. Dump this chink under the bunk—”

Taking heart from his wild exuberance, they rolled the dead prince under the bunk and concealed his body by means of the box and O’Sullivan’s fiddle case.

“But what about the yeller skipper?” demanded the man King. “There’s him and his four and the six others.”

“I’ll bring in the skipper now and settle him,” said Balderson. “Then we’ll make this mick talk, huh? The four men on deck are safe until we want to tackle ’em. Two o’ this feller’s men are down for’ard, they’re safe, too. There’s four with the women; we’ll clean them out first an’ take the others as they come down the companion to see what the shooting’s about. Huh?”

“Good enough!” exclaimed King, and the third man nodded.

Balderson strode to the door, left it ajar, and vanished. Two minutes later he came into sight again, and this time Mow Jung accompanied him. As the yellow skipper entered the cabin, King drove forward with his knife. Mow Jung, a smile still on his lips, slipped quietly to the floor and was with his ancestors.

“Hell of a lot o’ loot you get!” and Balderson kicked the body aside. “Or us, either, huh? Haul out that man.”

O’Sullivan was dragged from his berth and the gag stripped from him. Balderson looked down at him with a jeer and planted a boot in his ribs.

“Where’s the stuff that was in the box, huh?”

But the fiddler, gasping from that one kick, fell back limply. From the corner of his contorted lips trickled a thin stream of red.

“Let him lay and settle them chinks,” said King with an oath. “The stuff’s here, that’s sure. All we got to do is to look for it.”

“King’s right,” assented the other nervously. “Do it, Baldy. We got to handle them chinks ’fore they get wise and do for us.”

Balderson towered over them for a moment then nodded heavily.

“Good!” he muttered. “Leave the mick tied up; we’ll make him tell later. Come on and see to them four aft, make sure the women are safe, too. No more didoes like we had aboard the San Gregorio, huh? That’s what come o’ bein’ gentle.”

The three left the cabin, slamming the door behind them.

Desmond opened his eyes, and weakly surveyed the gruesome scene before him. What had taken place he had no means of knowing; the bound and senseless figure of the fiddler, however, together with the dead Mow Jung, gave him a hint. Then his amazed and staring gaze fell upon the face of Prince Chan beneath the bunks, disclosed to view when O’Sullivan had been dragged out. This was a much more tangible clue, and Desmond’s eyes widened in comprehension.

He tried to lift himself, and failed dismally. The swift pain of the effort made him bring his hand to his side; it came away crimsoned.

“Thunder o’ Finn! I’m lyin’ here with a bullet in me! Michael Terence, me lad! Is it a dead man ye are?”

O’Sullivan stirred a little at the voice. Desmond called again. The fiddler’s eyes opened and gazed vacuously around, then struck on Desmond with recognition.

“Well, Michael Terence!” said the latter whimsically. “The top of the mornin’ to ye, lad! Here’s hopin’ to meet ye in purgatory—”

“The money!” gasped O’Sullivan, reverting to the amazing loss. “It’s gone, sir—”

“To be sure it is,” came Desmond’s faint voice. “Since I put it in the pockets of that new overcoat I bought, and the overcoat’s lyin’ in the top bunk yonder! And I’m gone, too, more by token. Who was it shot me, Michael Terence?”

“Balderson. Him and his men and Prince Chan were aboard here, the murderin’ blackguards! Now they’ve turned on the yellow divils, and— but—”

The fiddler seemed to realize for the first time that Desmond lay shot before him. He began to cough terribly; when the paroxysm passed he got his bound feet against the fiddle case and managed to shove it toward Desmond.

“Are ye bad hurt, sir? There’s a bit flask in here, and a pistol and knife and—”

“Saints preserve us!” ejaculated Desmond. “If I could but get your two hands free, me lad, we’d fight a bit yet. The bullet’s in me, but how bad hurt I am there’s no saying. If I had a drink—”

His head was supported by the wall, and now he tried to sit up. With an effort he set his will to the task, but as his body came up he fell sidewise and lay limply across the fiddle case. As he lay thus his fingers found the clasps and opened the case.

Inch by inch his fingers groped about the thing. While he fought off the blind weakness that gripped him there came a rush of feet and a burst of shots from the passage outside.

“That’s them,” gasped O’Sullivan. “Doin’ for the chinks like they said—”

“Ah!” Desmond’s hand closed on the flask. Unscrewing the top was a tremendous effort, but at last it was accomplished. Getting the flask to his lips with shaking hand, he took a swallow of the fiery liquor. It revived and strengthened his body instantly.

“They were in too much of a hurry to kill me and have done,” he said, smiling a little. “Now, Michael Terence! Here’s the knife, and if ye can roll over a bit—”

The little man shoved his legs at Desmond, who cut the knotted cords about his ankles. In another moment O’Sullivan was free and on his feet.

“Can ye walk, sir?” He stooped above Desmond with a pitiful tenderness. “If ye could get to the cabins aft now, where the ladies are—”

The ladies! Desmond’s jaw clenched suddenly at the thought.

“Give us your hand, me lad.”

Breathing heavily, Desmond reeled up and stood leaning against the wall, while O’Sullivan eyed him with a keenly troubled look.

“Didn’t I say that Balderson— would be tearing things up— if he cut loose?” gasped Desmond. “Now that— he’s loose— he’s a bloody maniac!”

The fiddler sadly shook his head. “It’s little we can do, sir. Sure, the banshee was in that fiddle o’ mine last night! Will ye let me have a look at the wound—”

“Leave be, Michael Terence.” Desmond straightened up and stood erect. “I think I can walk a bit now. Stick your head out the door and see how the land lies!”

O’Sullivan opened the door into the passage and reconnoitered. Desmond, testing his strength, staggered across to the bunks, clinging there for a moment. He then reached into his newly purchased overcoat, which had been flung into the top bunk; from among the packages of bank notes that distended the pockets he drew forth an automatic. O’Sullivan had the pistol taken from the fiddle case.

Desmond had removed the bank notes, fearing lest the box be stolen or opened by the customs people at Tourane. This act, it now appeared, had precipitated the crisis between Balderson and the Manchus, and Desmond thanked his stars for the inspiration.

“All clear, sir!” reported the fiddler from the doorway. “If we could be reachin’ the cabins now and set the ladies free, we could do like we done aboard the schooner—”

“Luck never repeats, me lad,” and Desmond shook his head. “Still, let’s be havin’ a try at it. No doubt they’re all up for’ard, cleaning out the Chinamen. In that case, we might have a fightin’ chance.”

Between them they emptied the little flask and then, leaning upon O’Sullivan, Desmond left the cabin. They had but a few steps to go in order to reach the cabin presumably occupied by Rosemonde and Doña Juliana, but those few steps were an agony of torment for Desmond, who felt the strength ebbing out of him at each moment. Desmond leaned against the wall, resting, as O’Sullivan stepped forward to open the closed door of the cabin. As he touched it, however, it was suddenly flung open from within, and one of Balderson’s men appeared before them. At the same instant Desmond heard feet on the companion ladder and the nimble of Balderson’s voice. Caught— taken in front and rear!

The fiddler flung himself forward bodily; he did not dare to fire because of Rosemonde and Doña Juliana, who appeared tied in chairs beyond the doorway. The man facing them uttered a wild cry at sight of Desmond’s terrible figure, then reeled backward as O’Sullivan flung him aside and bore him down. The two men crashed to the floor.

“At ’em, King!” bellowed Balderson furiously.

Desmond gained the cabin doorway, but lacked the strength to get farther and to close the door. He turned, seeing Balderson and King charging down the passage at him. Lifting his automatic, he fired point-blank.

To his dismay, the shot failed to stop Balderson. That huge Viking figure came upon him with a roar and he felt himself gripped in those mighty arms, while Balderson grinned into his face. His weapon was held against his side, useless.

Over Balderson’s shoulder he had a terrible vision of King plunging upon O’Sullivan with ready knife, then he heard the fiddler’s shrill voice:

“I’ll hold ’em, sir! Get the big man now—”

But Balderson, grinning, was crushing the life out of him. Desmond was going limp, when he heard the voice of Rosemonde piercing his darkening senses. What she cried out was lost, but her voice wakened him. He fired downward, and the bullet carried King off his feet— yet not before King’s knife had plunged home.

Inch by inch Desmond worked his left arm loose. Balderson’s strength seemed to be suddenly weakening. With a burst Desmond freed his left hand and seized that wild yellow beard. A last frightful effort that seemed to call up all the flickering life within him, and he jerked back Balderson’s head.

His right hand came free, and he fired.

His last memory was of O’Sullivan coughing terribly.

14

Fair Sailing

WHEN DESMOND came to himself, he was lying upon the deck of the schooner in the morning sunlight, Doña Juliana holding his hand, her hot tears falling on his palm.

He had a brief glimpse of Rosemonde, a weapon in her hand, ordering two frightened yellow men about; then he asked weakly for the fiddler.

“He— he is gone,” responded Juliana, sobbing. “His last words— were for you—”

Desmond closed his eyes for a moment, heartsick. Then a shadow fell across his face, and he looked up again to see Rosemonde kneeling beside him. A strange wonder filled him at sight of her tear-wet face, for in it there was a great tenderness and love, and her fingers that touched his hand were trembling.

“What is it, fairy mistress?” asked Desmond faintly.

“Get those dressings, dear,” Rosemonde looked at Juliana, and the latter rose to her feet with a sob. “We’ll have to stop the bleeding at once. Don’t be afraid of those yellow curs; they’ll obey.”

Desmond smiled as Rosemonde bent over him.

“Praise be!” he uttered. “It’s all right you are, me dear love! And ye’ll not be sayin’ more about Juliana yonder?”

“Oh, hush, hush!” implored Rosemonde. “And to think that you didn’t know all the time. But no wonder you did not, for she only told me that night at the Résidence—”

“Know what, fairy mistress?”

“That she thought you loved her— and pitied you, because she loved a Spaniard there in Manila— and—”

“Thunder o’ Finn!” ejaculated Desmond, a sudden light of comprehension flooding upon his brain. “Is it tellin’ me the truth you are, Rosemonde? And listen now— ye’ll not turn away from me any more—”

She bent above him, tears upon her cheeks. “Only live, please live!” she cried choking. “Oh— I didn’t think you would ever come back to yourself long enough for me to tell you all my heart.”

“Praise be!” said Desmond, folding his fingers upon hers. “Praise be, me dear love! They couldn’t kill me— now. And we’ll go to America, you and I, and there we’ll begin to live, fairy mistress—”

Rosemonde, at the new life in his voice and the glory in his eyes, smiled and bowed her lips to his.

End

First published as a 4-part serial in the fortnightly magazine

The Thrill Book commencing July 1, 1919

___________________

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14