he said goodbye and we four made our way down the dock to the float where was moored a fast tender of the yacht. We climbed aboard, and the man in charge started the humming, many-cylindered engine. We darted off in a cloud of spray.
Once I saw Kennedy looking back, and I looked back also. In the far corner of the Casino stood the sallow-faced man, watching us intently. Who and what could he be?
Westport Bay is one of those fjords, as they almost might be called, which run in among the beautifully wooded hills of the north shore of Long Island.
The Sybarite was lying at anchor a mile or so off-shore. As we approached her we saw that she was a 150-foot, long, low-lying craft of the new type, fitted with gas engines, and built quite as much for comfort as for speed. She was an elaborately built craft, with all the latest conveniences, having a main saloon, dining-room, library, and many state-rooms, all artistically decorated. In fact, it must have cost a small fortune merely to run the yacht.
As we boarded it Shelby led the way to the sheltered deck aft, and we sat down for a moment to become acquainted,
‘Mito,’ he called to a Japanese servant, ‘take the gentlemen’s hats. And bring us cigars.’
The servant obeyed silently. Evidently Shelby spared nothing that made for comfort.
‘First of all,’ began Craig, ‘I want to see the state-room where Marshall Maddox slept.’
Shelby arose, apparently willingly enough, and led the way to the lower berth deck. Hastings carefully examined the seal which he had left on the door and, finding it intact, broke it and unlocked the door for us.
It was a bedroom rather than a state-room. The walls were panelled in wood and the port-hole was finished inside to look like a window. It was toward this port-hole that Kennedy first directed his attention, opening it and peering out at the water below.
‘Quite large enough for a man to get through—or throw a body through,’ he commented, turning to me.
I looked out also. ‘It’s a long way to the water,’ I remarked, thinking perhaps he meant that a boat might have nosed up alongside and someone have entered that way.
‘Still, if one had a good-sized cruiser, one might reach it by standing on the roof of the cabin,’ he observed. ‘At any rate, there’d be difficulty in disposing of a body that way.’
He turned. The wind had swung the yacht around so that the sun streamed in through the open port. Kennedy bent down and picked up some little bright slivers of thin metal that lay scattered here and there on the carpet.
He looked about at the furniture, then bent down and examined the side of the bedstead. It seemed to be pitted with little marks. He rose, and as he did so his gaze fell on one of the brass fittings of the cabin. It seemed to have turned green, almost to be corroded. With his penknife he scraped off some of the corrosion and placed it on a piece of paper, which he folded up.
The examination of the state-room completed, Shelby took us about the boat. First of all, he showed us the handsomely furnished main saloon opening into a little library, almost as if it were an apartment.
‘It was here,’ he volunteered, ‘that we held the conference last night.’
For the first time I became aware, although Kennedy had noticed it before, that when we boarded the Sybarite Mito had been about. He had passed twice down the hall while we were in the state-room occupied by Marshall Maddox. He was now busy in the library, but on our entrance had withdrawn deferentially, as though not wishing to intrude.
Henceforth I watched the Japanese keenly as he padded about the boat. Everywhere we went I fancied that he turned up. He seemed ubiquitous. Was it that he was solicitous of the wants of his master? Had he received instructions from him? Did the slant-eyed Oriental have something hidden behind that inscrutable face of his?
There did not seem to be anything else that we could discover aboard the yacht. Though we interviewed the officer and those of the crew who had been on watch, we were unable to find out from them that anything unusual had been observed, either as far as any other boat was concerned or on the Sybarite itself. In spite of them, the affair was as completely shrouded in mystery as ever.
Having looked the yacht over, Kennedy seemed now to be eager to get ashore again.
‘I hope you are satisfied, gentlemen?’ asked Shelby at last as our tour brought us to the mahogany steps that led from the outside of the white hull to the tender which had brought us out.
‘Very well—so far,’ returned Kennedy.
Maddox looked up quickly, but did not ask what he meant. ‘If there is any way in which I can be of service to you,’ he continued, ‘you have only to command me. I have as much reason as anyone to clear up the mystery in this unfortunate affair. I believe I will go ashore with you.’
He did not need to say that he was eager to get back to see Winifred Walcott, any more than Kennedy needed to tell me that he would like to see our sallow-faced friend again.
The tender skimmed over the waves, throwing the spray gaily as we sped back to the Harbour House dock.
We landed and Maddox excused himself, repeating his desire to aid us. Down the beach toward the bathhouses I could make out the frilly Paquita, surrounded now by several of the bathers, all men. Maddox saw her, but paid no attention. He was headed for the veranda of the Lodge.
The day was growing older and the Casino was beginning to liven up. In the exquisitely appointed ballroom, which was used also for morning and afternoon dances, strains of the one-step attracted some dozen couples. Kennedy sauntered along, searching the faces we passed in the hope of seeing someone who might be of value to know on the case, now and then reminding Hastings not to neglect to point out anyone who might lend aid. Hastings saw no one, however, and as we mounted the steps to the Lodge excused himself for a minute to send some telegrams to those of the family whom he had forgotten.
We had promised to meet him in the lobby by the desk, and thither Kennedy bent his steps.
‘I think I’ll look over the register,’ he remarked, as we approached the busiest part of the hotel. ‘Perhaps, too, some of the clerks may know something.’
There was nothing on the register, apparently, for after turning it around and running through it he merely laid his finger on the name ‘Señorita Paquita Gonzales, Maid and Chauffeur, New York,’ written under the date of the day before the arrival of the Maddoxes for the conference, and among the last of the day, showing that she had arrived late.
As we were looking over the names we were startled by a voice softly speaking behind us.
‘Well, I should have known you fellows would be out here before long. It’s a big case. Don’t notice me here. I’ll see you in the writing-room. It’s empty now.’
We turned in surprise. It was our old friend Burke, of the Secret Service.
He had already lounged off, and we followed without seeming to do so, stopping only for a moment at the news-stand.
‘Why are you here?’ demanded Craig, pointedly, as we three settled ourselves in an angle of the deserted writing-room.
‘For the same reason that you are,’ Burke returned, with a smile; then added
