Wings of the Wind Part 8

"Really?" he grinned. "You go below and take something with a dash of bitters in it."

"Dry up," I snapped. "I tell you I'm going to catch up with that yacht if we have to follow her around the world!"

He gave a low whistle, saying with good-natured tolerance:

"Looks like the big adventure's on the wing, doesn't it! Well, I don't mind chasing the old tub, or doing any other damphule thing in reason, but what's the game? Put me next! When was this earthquake that loosened all your little rivets? Speak up, son--I'm your _padre_!"

"It's hard to explain," I turned again to the negative, feeling too serious for his asinine humor. "But I'll honestly try to before night.

This girl needs me. I don't know why or how, but she does. What's more, I'm going to find her. It's the most unheard-of situation, old man."

"I'd be ashamed to belittle a situation like this by the mere term 'unheard-of,'" he now laughed outright. "Anyhow, she doesn't need you at present quite as much as you need scientific attention--and I hear the professor moving around!"

Stepping to the companionway door he bawled some nonsense to our guest about bringing up his medicine chest and a rope, then turned back to me.

"You see, Jack, I consider this to be serious. As long as I've known you that lady in the porthole is the first female you've ever thought of with any sign of, what I might call, _ardeur_. Where you met her is your business, but how you're going to get her must naturally concern us all.

Hence Monsieur to consult with!"

We could hear Monsieur's grunts and wheezes before he appeared, and on catching sight of me he actually skipped to us. It was a grotesque exhibition that made me burst out laughing. His hair was tousled, his eyes were half closed, and he looked about as much like a scrambled egg as anything I could think of.

"We lost you last night," he cried. "You ran away from us?"

"He was poisoned," Tommy blandly answered, "and now his heart's kind of upside-down and twisty."

"Upside-down and twisty?" he gasped.

"Tommy doesn't mean it's anything dangerous, just an affection; a kind of--a kind of----"

"A kind of affectionate affection," Tommy put in. "You see, he was stung there, and it itches, and he can't scratch it."

"Stung on the heart? _Sacre nomme!_" The old fellow clasped his head in both hands and stared at us.

"You fascinating little a.s.s," Tommy murmured, "did you ever hear of love?"

"Love?" the professor's face beamed into twice its usual breadth. "You, my boy Jack? Is she a Spanish mademoiselle?"

"Good Lord, whoever heard of a Spanish mademoiselle! No, Jack says that she's a lady in need, who lives in the pocket of her father's white serge coat that hangs behind his stateroom door; and she's in a h.e.l.luva lot of trouble, but Jack doesn't know where else she is, so we're going to comb out the universe and find her! Get the idea?"

"I will drink some coffee," he stammered, and disappeared.

Tommy and I decided that we must be after the _Orchid_ without losing a minute, as there was still a chance of drawing in sight of her before she could leave Key West. Yet I first had a mission to fulfill at the cafe, nor did I confide this at once to him lest he brand me a total wreck. I knew that he was delighted at the prospect of this bizarre chase, however chimeric it might seem to him, for he possessed the faculty of "playing-true" even in the veriest of fairy-tales. So for the moment I let the other matter rest, not realizing at the time that he had read more of it in my face than I meant to show.

Gates, also, had caught the excitement and was waiting with the launch to push off; and thus, while he concluded official duties at the port, I entered the cafe--in the present unfriendly light a changed place from the night before. As luck would have it, my own waiter was the first man I saw.

"Do you remember finding a small piece of crumpled paper on my table last night?" I asked.

"_Si_, Senor; the mad _caballero_ came for it."

"Did he get it?"

"But, no, Senor," the waiter lowered his voice. "Yet he came near to, being much angry, and calling you--pardon me!"

"Well, what? What, man?"

He still hesitated, so I carelessly took out my wallet. It's amazing, the power of a wallet!

"He demanded the paper of our _maitre d'hotel_, saying you, Senor, were a pig of a detective--and as we admire the detective not at all, everyone searched for it. But I had seen other things, Senor," he smiled knowingly.

"You have it?"

"_Si, si,_--but not so loud! Could I give it to the old one? Even a poor waiter may sometimes observe! _Mas vale saber que haber, Senor_," he shrugged and smiled as the ancient proverb slipped from his tongue.

"You've a mighty level head on you, kid," I agreed; a metaphor he may or may not have understood. There was no doubt in my mind that his words, "wisdom is better than wealth," were never more aptly spoken.

"I saw it after you left, Senor, and put it away--so! The mad _caballero_ soon came--he was not happy. We searched the floor, and all the time he was shaking his head and mumbling that Mademoiselle had confessed to writing it--and to a detective! He was quite crazy. Ah, with what care and sympathy did I help him, Senor, and how generously did he reward my careful search!"

He shrugged and smiled, then drew the paper from his pocket, and I slipped it into mine--pa.s.sing him back another kind of paper that he slipped into his with a grateful bow.

"Do you know who the man is, or if that was his daughter?"

"No, Senor. I have seen them, but can not remember where. Carlos served their table--but Carlos is stupid," he shrugged compa.s.sionately.

The moment my cab turned the first corner I feverishly took out that precious paper. Sure enough, on one side were marks _I_ had not seen, but the pencilling was very faint--having had the soft tablecloth for a desk, perhaps--and showed only a meandering line, curving in and out through a group of dots. From every angle I studied it, coming to two conclusions: first, that it could mean nothing; and second, that I must have imbibed more freely than I thought to have overlooked this.

But now I saw, fainter than the dots, something that resembled written words. They were so obscure, indeed, that although the light was excellent my jostling cab made it impossible for me to decipher them.

Telling the driver to stop, I bent over again, and laboriously read:

"I am on Mr. Graham's yacht in great da----"

At this place, as I looked back upon last night, the old chap had indicated his wish to leave, and she, tearing off a corner, had let the wine card slip to the floor. It explained the broken word, the sudden interruption; and this much was not a dream, neither was the disturbing message in my hands--for what else but "danger" could the "da" mean?

All was ready to weigh anchor when I stepped aboard, and when we were outside the harbor, drawing nicely toward the north, Tommy came up grumbling.

"This mystery's getting heavy," he said. "Put us wise!"

So I pushed him into a chair, and called the professor and Gates; then when the four of us were comfortably settled, the cushions fitting our shoulders, our pipes alight, our spirits glowing with that exhilaration which a yacht can bring as she lays over and cuts the waves, I told the story from beginning to end--sparing Sylvia where I should.

For some minutes they smoked with their eyes downcast. Then Monsieur looked up in his mild way, asking:

"May I see the paper?"

I pa.s.sed it to him and we drew together, studying it.

"This is the most singular part of the affair," he said, leaning back, "because it first came to you in fact, although the man's returning for it was told in the dream--and later verified. The dots and line mean nothing, perhaps, but that interrupted message!--ah, truly it spells danger! What danger? She spoke of no danger in the dream?"

Now, it may seem strange or not, but I had begun to lose track of the places where the dream came in and where they left off. The actual was so woven with the unreal that I had to stop and consider this question.

The paper episode, the vividness with which Sylvia had appeared to me, the bra.s.s frame made in the imitation of a porthole, and the camera's film, all contributed to a confusion not unshared by my three friends.

"It's a darned funny coincidence," said Tommy, in an awed voice. "But, Jack, you don't think more seriously of it, do you?"