Ted’s motorboat was their hope, he decided; but how? How to get at Ted, how to tell him, was the problem. Methodically he thought things out; now that he had something definite in his mind to go on, his brain was cool and collected. And it seemed to him that the only way would be to go overboard as they passed Ted’s yacht, and then follow the Gadfly at once while she was still close to land. There would be men on Ted’s yacht, and they could board the Gadfly and hold her up. That there were difficulties he realised. It meant leaving the Professor for at least an hour even under the most favourable conditions. Further it would be getting dark when they overtook the Gadfly, and to board a yacht steaming her twelve to fifteen knots is not a simple matter when the crew of the yacht do not desire your presence, and await you with marlinespikes on deck. Besides, the guests on Ted’s yacht might feel that as an evening’s amusement “hunt the slipper” won on points. Still, it seemed the only chance, and he decided on it unless something better turned up. Anyway, it was a plan with a chance of success, which was something.
He glanced through the open door to try to spot his position, and estimated that another half-hour at the rate they were going would just about bring them opposite Ted’s yacht. Still no one came near him, though periodically he could see one of the sailors moving about the deck. As far as he could tell, he had been slung just aft of the funnel, though he dared not raise himself too much for fear of being seen.
The minutes passed, and his hopes began to rise. Could it be that luck was going to be on his side? Could it be that no one would come, and, that in the failing light he might be able to slip over the side unperceived? If so, he might gain an invaluable half-hour; more—he might be able to get the motorboat alongside the Gadfly later without the crew suspecting anything. It seemed too good to be true, and yet a quarter of an hour, twenty minutes, passed, and he was still alone.
He peered out again; they were getting very close. The deck was deserted, and suddenly he felt he could bear the strain no longer. He rose from the bunk and cautiously peered out of the door. And the sight he saw almost staggered him with his good fortune. If he had been walking about the deck instead of being cooped up under cover he could not have timed it more exactly. Not a hundred yards away to port lay Jerningham’s yacht, with the motorboat alongside the gangway.
Drummond glanced round; he could see no one. The structure in which he had been hoisted on board effectively screened him from the bridge; the sailors were apparently having their evening meal. And taking a quick breath he prepared to make a sprint for the side when he saw something which completely altered his plans. Leaning over the side of the yacht he was watching were a man and a woman. And the man was Ted Jerningham himself.
Drummond saw him focus a pair of field-glasses and turn them on the Gadfly. And then clear and distinct across the water he heard the amazed shout of “Hugh.” Jerningham had seen him; the supreme chance had come, if only he wasn’t interrupted. And it is safe to say that during the next minute a very astonished girl stood beside a man whom she almost failed to recognise as the Ted Jerningham of normal life.
“A pencil,” he snapped. “Write as I spell out. Get a move on. Look out: he’s beginning. D.A.N.G.E.R. F.O.L.L.O.W. I.N. M.O.T.O.R. B.O.A.T. P.E.T.E.R.S.O.N. U.R.G.E.N.T. That’s all.”
She looked up: the huge man on board the passing yacht who had been standing outlined against the sky waving his arms had disappeared.
“What on earth was he doing?” she cried.
“Semaphoring,” answered Jerningham briefly.
“But I don’t understand,” she said.
“Nor do I,” returned her companion. “But that was Hugh Drummond. And what Hugh says—goes, if we follow for the whole night. Coming?”
“Rather. Who’s Peterson?”
“A very dear old friend,” said Jerningham with a grim smile. “But how the deuce …” He broke off, and stared after the retreating yacht. “He loves me, because I emptied the entire sauce-boat over his shirtfront one night in Paris, when disguised as a waiter at the Ritz.”
“My dear Ted, are you mad?” laughed the girl, following him down the gangway into the waiting motorboat.
“Oh! no—just fun and laughter. You wouldn’t believe what a humorist old man Peterson is.”
A terrific explosion rent the air, followed by a cloud of blue exhaust smoke, and Jerningham took the tiller.
“Warm enough, Pat?” he asked. “It may be a long show.”
“Quite, thanks,” she answered. “Ted, why do you look so grave?”
“I’m just wondering, my dear, if I ought to take you.” His hand was still on the gangway, and he looked at her irresolutely.
“Why on earth not?”
“Because there may be very grave danger.”
The girl laughed.
“Get on with it while the going’s good,” she said. “That yacht will be past the Needles if you delay much longer.”
And so it came about that Drummond, watching feverishly from his bunk in the Gadfly, saw with a sigh of intense relief the motorboat shoot out across the water. It was nearly a mile astern, but a mile was nothing to a boat
