“It’s dreadful,” she sobbed—“too dreadful! To think of those two poor men being drowned like that.”
But Mr. Robinson was not concerned with the dreadfulness of the situation; all that mattered to him was whether it was true or not. From the moment when Drummond, foaming at the mouth, had dashed into the dining-saloon, Mr. Robinson’s brain had been working furiously. An attempt to intercept himself between Drummond and Professor Goodman had resulted in an appalling blow on his arm with a marline spike. And then, accustomed though he was to the rapidity of Drummond’s movements, even he for a few seconds had been nonplussed. There had been something so diabolical about this huge man, bellowing hoarsely, who had, after that first blow, paid no more attention to him, but had hurled himself straight on the dazed Professor. And even when the Professor, squealing like a rabbit, had dashed on deck with Drummond after him, for an appreciable time Mr. Robinson had remained staring stupidly at the door. Drummond sane was dangerous; Drummond mad was nerve-shattering. And then he had pulled himself together just in time to dash on deck and see them both go overboard.
Thoughtfully his eyes searched the water again; there was no trace of either man. Of a suspicious nature, he had examined both sides of the motorboat; moreover, he had seen inside the motorboat. And now as the girl’s sobs died away he turned to the officer beside him.
“There can be no doubt about it, I fear,” he remarked with a suitable inflection of sorrow in his voice.
“None, sir, I’m afraid. Even if we couldn’t see them, we could hear them. I’m afraid the madman’s done the poor old gentleman in.”
“Sink in a brace of shakes with a holy terror like that ’anging round yer neck,” said one of the sailors, and a mutter of agreement came from the others.
“Yes, I’m afraid there can be no possibility of saving them now.” Ted Jerningham took out his cigarette-case, only to replace it hurriedly as he remembered the dreadful tragedy they had just witnessed. “Doubtless, however, their bodies will be washed ashore in time.”
“Er—doubtless,” murmured Mr. Robinson. That aspect of the case had already struck him, and had not pleased him in the slightest degree. Had he been able to conform with his original plan, neither body would have ever been seen again. However, he had not been able to conform to that plan, so there was no more to be said about it. The main point was that both of them were drowned.
“Doubtless,” he repeated. “Poor fellows!—poor fellows! Two neurasthenic patients of mine, sir. … How sad!—How terribly sad! However, I fear there is no good wasting any more time. I can only thank you for your prompt assistance, and regret that, through no fault of yours, it was not more effective.”
Jerningham bowed.
“Don’t mention it, sir—don’t mention it,” he murmured. “But I think, as I can do no more, that I will now get back. The tragedy, as you will understand, has somewhat upset this lady.”
He put his finger on the starting-switch, and the quiet of the night was broken by the roar of the engine. And as the sailors dipped in their oars to row back to the yacht, the motorboat circled slowly round.
“Good night, sir.” Mr. Robinson waved a courteous hand. “And again a thousand thanks.”
“And again don’t mention it,” returned Jerningham, sitting down by the tiller. “You can take your wrap off his hand now, Pat,” he whispered. “They can’t see.”
A vast hand grasping the gunwale was revealed as she did so, and an agonised whisper came from the water.
“Hurry, old man, for the love of Pete. Unless we can hold the old man upside-down soon to drain the water out of him, he’ll drown.”
“Right-oh! Hugh. Can you hold on for a couple of hundred yards. I’ll go slow. But they may have a searchlight on the yacht, and we’re still very close to her.”
“All right, Ted. I leave it to you.”
“I’ll still keep broadside on, old man; though I don’t think he had any suspicions.”
He nosed the motorboat through the water, and a few moments later the necessity of his precaution was justified. A blinding light flickered across the water, found them, and held steady: it was the Gadfly’s searchlight. Jerningham rose and waved his hand, and after a while the beam passed on searching the sea. One final attempt evidently to try to spot the victims of the tragedy, rewarded by empty water. And at last the light went out; all hope had been abandoned.
“Quick, Hugh,” cried Jerningham. “Get the old boy on board.”
With a heave the almost unconscious form of Professor Goodman was hoisted into the boat, to be followed immediately by Drummond himself.
“Lie down, old man—lie down in case they use that searchlight again.”
The engine roared and spluttered, and two black mountains of water swirled past the bows.
“Forty-five on her head, Hugh,” shouted Ted. “Incidentally, what’s this particular brand of round game?”
“The largest drink in the shortest time, old son,” laughed the other. “And for the Professor—bed, quick.”
He turned to the girl.
“My dear soul,” he said, “you were magnificent. If you hadn’t had hysteria when I began to sneeze it was all up.”
“But what could he have done?” cried the girl “And he looked such a nice old man.”
Drummond laughed grimly.
“Did you recognise him, Ted?” Once again he turned to the girl. “If he’d known that we were in the water, that nice old man would have had no more compunction in shooting you and Ted and dropping your bodies overboard than I shall have in drinking that drink. It’s been the biggest coup of his life, Ted—but it’s failed. But, by Jove, old man, it’s been touch and go, believe me.”
The roar of the engine made conversation difficult, and after covering the dripping form of the Professor with a dry
