In any case, his investigations would be delayed. And I was playing for time. Six days must elapse, I reflected, before the yacht could return. For how many of these would I continue to enjoy my liberty? For as soon as Clubfoot realised that he had been fooled, I knew that he would once again stretch out that long arm of his to seize me. I should have to find a secure hiding-place--I thought of the high ground of the island, somewhere among those lofty volcanic peaks, in this connection--but the present need was for action. In the light of the fresh clue I had obtained, I must push on with my investigation at the grave itself and that without a moment's delay. For the rest of the cipher, notably those baffling bars of music, which were firmly fixed in my mind,--well, sufficient for the day is the evil thereof!
I looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes past eleven. "Mittag"--noon--the message was dated, clearly an indication of the time at which the experiment with the heliograph was to be made. If I were to act, I must act at once. Fortunately, the grave could not be far from where I lay. But what of Clubfoot?
The sound of voices came as if in answer to my query--of voices close at hand. Parting the foliage in front of me, I saw a file of men winding their way through the forest not twenty paces away. They appeared to be following some kind of path; for they marched steadily, one behind the other.
I pressed myself flat behind my protecting bush, only my head raised to observe the men as they went by. Now scraps of German came to my ears. There was talk of someone they called "Red Itzig," a Jew, who was to read the cipher for them. Itzig was apparently ill for there was some chaff about "the Jew" being cured as soon as he could hear that the treasure was within their grasp.
Did this mean that they were going back to their camp? And that the coast was clear for that pressing work I had to do. Five minutes, I calculated, would suffice for my purpose.
I kept a sharp eye open for Clubfoot. Here he came, the eighth in the party, hobbling along in the rear, with set face, grim and silent. The line halted for a moment. The man in front of Clubfoot, a small, dark man, doffed his panama to sponge his face. To my amazement it was Custrin.... Custrin, whom I had last seen, at the side of Marjorie Garth, standing at the head of the _Naomi's_ ladder waving us farewell as the launch took us ashore....