TILL smiling benevolently, Mr. Robinson strolled away and shortly afterward 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 the yacht was under way. And with a feeling of impotent rage, Drummond realized 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. But he was still no nearer to the solution of the problem. At any moment some one 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, and again he lay still. Then, suddenly, came the idea—Ted's motor boat. 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 Ted's motor boat held the key of the problem. But how? How to get 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.
He glanced through the open door to try to determine 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.
Twenty minutes later 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, for not a hundred yards away to port lay Jerningham's yacht, with the motor boat alongside the gangway.
Drummond glanced around. 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 else 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 recognize 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,” answering 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!” laughed the girl, following him down the gangway into the waiting motor boat.
A terrific explosion rent the air followed by a cloud of blue exhaust smoke, and Jerningham took the tiller.