Captivating Mary Carstairs Part 4

"Not at all. Interested by your conversation--fascinated. Ha! Here is something to vary the evening's monotony. A row-boat is drifting down-stream towards us. Let us make little wagers with each other as to who'll be in it."

He looked over his shoulder upward at the moon, which a flying scud of cloud had momentarily veiled. Peter, who had sat down again, glanced up the river.

"I don't see any boat."

"There is where the wager comes in, my son. Hurry up--the moon will pop out in another minute, and spoil the sport."

"Drifting, you say. Bet you she's empty--broke away from her moorings and riding down with the current. Bet you half a dollar. My second bet,"

he said, warming to the work, "is an old washerwoman and her little boy, out on their rounds collecting clothes. It's Monday. In case both firsts are wrong, second choices get the money."

"My bet is--Ha! Stand ready with your half! There she comes--Jove!"

"Good G.o.d!" cried Peter and sprang up.

For the moon had jumped out from behind its cloud like a cuckoo in a clock, and fallen full upon the drifting boat, now hardly fifty yards away. In the bottom of it lay a man, sprawled over his useless oars, his upturned face very white in the moonlight, limp legs huddled under him anyhow. Something in the abandon of his position suggested that he would not get up any more.

CHAPTER IV

WHICH CONCERNS POLITICS AND OTHER LOCAL MATTERS

It was an odd sight against the setting of pretty night and light, idle talk. Peter's lip tightened.

"He's dead, poor chap!" he said, in a low voice. "Murdered."

"So it seems. We can't be sure from here, though. Where's that watch?

Here--some of you! Lower away the dinghy! Get a move!"

The boats were on their hooks, swung outboard ready for instant use. The crew, tumbling out swiftly at the call, cleared away one and let it fall over the side. The young men went down with it, Peter seizing the oars as his by right. The floating boat with its strange cargo had drifted close and was now lost in the vast black shadow of the yacht.

"Where is it?"

"I can't--Yes! There it is. Straight back. Now a little to the right.

Way enough!"

Varney, in the stern, leaned out and gripped the drifting gunwale securely. But it was so dark here that he could see almost nothing.

"He's breathing, I think," he said, his hand against the strange man's chest. "Pull out into the light."

But just then the arm that lay under the still head unmistakably twitched.

"Good!" cried Peter and laughed a little. "Strike a match and let's have a look at him."

Varney fumbled in his pockets, found one and scratched it on the side.

Shielding the flame in his curved hand, he leaned forward and held it close to that motionless face.

It was a young face, pale and rather haggard, lined about the mouth and yellow about the eyes; the face of a clever but broken gentleman. Full of contrasts and a story as it was, it would have been a striking face at any time; and to the two peering men in the _Cypriani's_ boat, it was now very striking indeed. For they saw immediately that the curious eyes were half open and were fixed full upon them.

The match burned Varney's fingers, went out and dropped into the water.

He said nothing. Neither did Peter. The man in the boat did not stir. So went by a second of profound stillness. Then a somewhat blurred voice said:

"When a gentleman goes rowing--in a private boat--and is raided by a pair of unknown investigators--one of them wearing a Mother Hubbard-- who strike matches in his face and make personal remarks--he naturally awaits their explanations."

The speech fell upon four of the most astonished ears in the State of New York.

Peter recovered first: the remark about the Mother Hubbard had stung him a little, even in that dumfounded moment, but he only laughed.

"The fact is, we made absolutely sure that you were a corpse. Our mistake."

"But G.o.d save us!" murmured the young man. "Can't a man die these days without a yacht-full of anxious persons steaming up and clamping a light against his eyeball?"

"But can't we do something for you?" asked Varney. "That's what we are here for."

The young man lay still and thought a moment, which he appeared to do with some difficulty.

"To be frank," his voice came out of the dark, rather clearer now, "you can. Give me a match, will you?"

Varney laughed; he produced and handed over a little box of them. Lying flat on his back in the boat, the young man fished a cigarette out of his pocket, hurriedly, and stuck it between his lips. The next minute the spurt of a match cut the air. The two in the ship's boat caught a brief, flashing glimpse of him--thin white hands raised to thin white face.

"Something of a _poseur_, aren't you?" suggested Peter pleasantly.

"What's your role to-night?"

There followed a fractional pause.

"That of a vagrant student of manners and customs," answered the colorless voice. "Therefore, to imitate your frankness, you interest me greatly."

"Those who study manners," said Peter, "should learn them after a while.

Why didn't you sing out, when you saw us hustling to get out a boat, and tell us not to bother, as you were only playing dead for the lark of the thing?"

"Singing, whether out or in, is an art at which I can claim small proficiency. But tell me the time, will you? I seem to have hocked my watch."

Peter laughed a little ruefully. "It's seven thirty-six--no more and no less."

The young man sat up with an effort, and uncertainly gathered up his oars.

"You'll excuse me, then?" he said. "I have an engagement at seven thirty, and as you see, there is little time to make it."

"We gave you a light," said Peter. "Why not reciprocate? Who the devil are you?"

"I am a part of all that I have met," said the stranger, pulling off. "I am wily wandering Ulysses. I am--"

"That will do," said Peter sharply.

He bowed gravely and rowed away. Peter looked after him for some time, in rather impressive silence.

"What d' you suppose was the matter with the beggar, anyway? He wasn't drunk."