“Do you mean they have been stolen?” demanded Dr. Chalmers.
“That’s just what I do mean, sir.” And Nat proceeded to impart all that had occurred, not forgetting, of course, the disappearance of Dr. Sartorius.
“Well, this is a nice kettle of fish,” blurted out Joe angrily. “Oh, but weren’t we the chumps to take that fellow on board! I wish we’d left him to continue his way to Mexico, and let it go at that!”
“Too late now to cry over spilt milk,” declared Nat. He was going to say more when Mr. Jenkins, who had been listening to their talk, interrupted.
“Did I hear you mention the name of Sartorius?” he inquired in a feeble voice, although one that vibrated with a keen interest.
“Yes,” said Nat, and rapidly told how they came to include the name of the black-bearded man in their conversation.
“And he was here and is gone?” demanded Mr. Jenkins so excitedly that Dr. Chalmers had to beg him to calm himself.
The others stared at Mr. Jenkins. His hands clenched and unclenched.
“Oh, the precious scoundrel!” he choked out; and then added quickly, “Look in my coat and see if you can find some papers, a thick bundle held together with an india rubber band!”
Then, and not till then, did the Motor Rangers recall what the ship’s doctor had told them about a slashed coat. In the rush of events following the start of the return run, this fact had completely slipped their minds. A glance at the coat showed a slash over the breast pocket. Inside there were no such papers as the injured man described. The pocket was empty, in fact.
“Oh, why didn’t I recover consciousness sooner?” he exclaimed, lying back weakly. “That rascal has taken the result of years of work and thought with him. I am ruined!”
Dr. Chalmers happened to have with him, in a sort of pocket emergency case, some soothing tablets. He crushed one of these in a tin cup of water and gave it to Mr. Jenkins. In a few seconds he spoke to him in a quiet tone:
“Suppose you tell us what you know about this man Sartorius, and how you came to be on the same ship, and also how you met with your accident—if it was an accident.”
“It was not an accident,” rejoined Mr. Jenkins emphatically, “the man Sartorius—who is not a doctor, but only styles himself such—came behind me on the companionway and shoved me so suddenly that I lost my balance and fell headlong. I turned in time to see him, but not to save myself. I had been on guard against attack, but not against such an attack as that. Then, having rendered me unconscious by the fall, he robbed me of the papers I have mentioned, for which he had tracked me across the continent.”