Southampton Water! He managed to shift the sodden pocket-handkerchief into a more comfortable position, and his train of thought grew pessimistic. Why would men invent processes for making diamonds? he reflected morosely. If only the dear old blitherer still peacefully sleeping in the opposite bunk had stuck to albumenised food, he wouldn’t have been lying trussed up like a Christmas turkey, Far from it: he would have been disporting himself on Ted Jerningham’s governor’s yacht at Cowes. Had not Ted expressly invited him—Ted, who had hunted Peterson with him in the past, and asked for nothing better than to hunt him again?
The irony of it! To think that Ted might even see the yacht go by; might remark on the benevolence of the appearance of mutton-chop whiskers, if by chance he should be on deck. And he would never know. In all ignorance he would return to one of his habitual spasms of love, which always assailed him when afloat, with anyone who happened to be handy.
It was a distressing thought, and, after a while, he resolutely tried to banish it from his mind. But it refused to be banished. Absurd, of course, but suppose—just suppose he could communicate with Ted. Things were so desperate that he could not afford to neglect even the wildest chance. Ted’s father’s yacht generally lay, as he knew, not far from the outgoing waterway; he remembered sitting on deck with Phyllis and watching an Union Castle boat go by so close that he could see the passengers’ faces on deck. What if he could shout or something? But Ted might not be on deck.
Eagerly he turned the problem over in his mind, and the more he thought of it the more it seemed to him to be the only possible way out. How to do it, he hadn’t an idea—but at any rate it was something to occupy his thoughts. And when the benevolent face of Mr. Robinson appeared at the door some hours later, he was still wrestling with the problem, though the vacant look in his eyes left nothing to be desired.
“Any difficulty getting on board?” asked Mr. Robinson.
“None at all, boss,” answered the man who was still on guard. “We gagged the madman to be on the safe side.”
Mr. Robinson beamed.
“Take the old man below,” he remarked. “He’ll be coming round soon. I will stay with our friend here till you return.”
Thoughtfully he pulled the handkerchief out of Drummond’s mouth and sat down on the opposite bunk.
“Still suffering from concussion,” he said gently. “Still, we have plenty of time, Captain Drummond—plenty of time.”
“Gug-gug,” answered Drummond happily.
“Precisely,” murmured the other. “I believe that men frequently say that when they drown. But I promise you we won’t drown you at once. As I say—there is plenty of time.”
XI
In Which Drummond Leaves the S.Y. Gadfly
Still smiling benevolently, Mr. Robinson strolled away, and shortly afterwards a series of sharp orders followed by a faint throbbing announced that the voyage of the S.Y. Gadfly had commenced. The Cunarder receded into the distance, and still Drummond lay on the bunk wrestling with the problem of what to do. He judged the time as being about six, so they would pass Ted Jerningham’s yacht in daylight.
Apparently no guard was considered necessary for him now that the yacht was under way; after all, to watch a completely bound madman is a boring and uninteresting pastime. And with a feeling of impotent rage Drummond realised how easy it would be to cut the ropes and go quietly overboard. A swim of a mile or so meant nothing to him. If only it hadn’t been for the Professor! …
No; the last hope—the only hope—lay in Ted Jerningham. Once that failed, it seemed to Drummond that nothing could save them. And it was perfectly clear that by no possibility could he hope to communicate with Ted from his present position. He must be free to use his limbs. And during the next ten minutes he discovered that the blade of a safety-razor is an unpleasant implement with which to cut half-inch rope, especially when one’s wrists are bound.
But at last it was done, and he was free. No one had interrupted him, though once some footsteps outside had made him sweat with fear. But he was still no nearer to the solution of the problem. At any moment someone might come in and find him, and there would be no mistake about binding him the second time. Moreover, it would prove fairly conclusively that he was not as mad as he pretended.
Quickly he arranged the ropes with the cut ends underneath, so that to a cursory glance they appeared intact. Then he again lay still. That the glance would have to be very cursory for anyone to be deceived he realised, but it was the best he could do. And anyway he was free, even if only for the time. If the worst came to the worst he had no doubt as to his ability to fight his way to the side and go overboard; gun work is impossible in Southampton Water. But unless he did it near another ship, he feared that the delay before he could do anything would be fatal to the Professor. Peterson would take no chances in this case; he would murder the old man out of hand, instead of postponing the event.
And then, suddenly, came the idea—Ted’s motorboat. How it was going to help he didn’t see; he had no coherent plan. But with a sort of subconscious certainty he felt that in Ted’s motorboat lay the key to the problem. She was a wonderful machine, capable of doing her forty knots with ease, and she was the darling of Ted’s heart. Her method
