“I was telling my niece what happened—what I thought happened,” said Stephen Foster frankly. “My son, against my own judgment—but I told you that over the phone. I will only say that when you did not appear we telephoned, and then ran down to the hotel in the car as soon as it was adjusted. I had a talk with the clerk, who showed me your baggage. It was, er—not of great value. He considered you had left it in lieu of payment. I must admit that I reverted to my original belief that you had in some way got hold of information concerning the Golden Dolphin and had arrived here with spurious information in the hope of a reward of some sort, abandoning the plan on seeing that your proofs would have to be submitted to more than casual investigation. In other words, I thought you got cold feet when I suggested an interview, not with more or less interested and credulous women influenced by sentiment, but with me.
“I apologize. It is evident you have been more or less misjudged by us. Very evident that you have been at—er—some pains to return, after rough treatment that seems to have been extended to both sides of the argument. Now will you tell us what has happened; why you wrote that you were not coming back; why you changed your mind, and, seemingly, fought your way back?”
Despite himself, Jim found his feelings changing toward Stephen Foster. There was a frankness about his regrets, a thawing of his general chilliness, a changing in his eyes, a touch of actual humanity that affected him as the difference between heat and cold. But he did not forego caution, he was unable to cast off all suspicion.
“I went,” he said, “because I found myself regarded by you as a faker; because I feared that Miss Whiting was being swayed by sentimentality, and I thought the chances of finding her father on the island remote; because she offered me a share of the pearls in return for the figures which I considered belonged to her.
“Therefore, I mailed her the little diary, intending to leave. I considered you had a right to such information as I might give about landings and anchorages, so I told you I would come to your house. I have changed my mind about the possibilities of the trip. At any rate I am now inclined to think the pearls are there. Others do, also, it appears. In order to get a chance to get away from my host at Wareham I had to furnish him with false figures. It was very plain he intended going to the island. I hope he’ll try to go to the position I furnished him. I am afraid he won’t. From my short acquaintance with him I should be surprised if he does not make another attempt to get hold of the correct figures—he, or those who may be behind him, who might have been behind the mutiny that Captain Whiting hinted at in his letters to his daughter.
“So, as soon as I could, I wired Miss Whiting, also Miss Warner for security, not to divulge the figures I had given her to anybody under any consideration. And I would advise her to hang on to them until the last necessary moment—that would be after leaving Fiji—if she makes the trip.”
Jim said this almost defiantly, striving to detect some clew that father or son, or both, were what he had surmised. Stephen Foster’s face showed little but grave attention. Newton Foster displayed close interest. Nothing more.
“I consider that an excellent idea,” said Foster. “I commend you, Lyman, for qualities I had not credited you with. Where is this book, Kitty? Have you shown it to anybody?”
“No. It is in my safety deposit box at the Foxfield National.” Foster nodded approval, but not surprise. Jim inwardly applauded the girl’s business capacities.
“Fine. Go on, Lyman.”
Jim told his story, tersely enough. He was a little thrown off his guard by Foster’s manner, but he was not entirely disarmed. The connection between Swenson and Foxfield, particularly with regard to his knowledge of his own whereabouts that evening on his way to the Foster house, needed explaining. But Jim felt that it could do no harm to say what had happened in front of the Fosters. If one or both was in league with Swenson they would, sooner or later, know all about it, up to the time of his escape in the fog, if they did not know it already. He was a little inclined to acquit Newton Foster. His jealousy of the son had evaporated somewhat since Kitty Whiting’s exclamation of “Oh, your poor hand!” with its genuine sympathy. With both the women, Newton showed no signs of discredence of his yarn, melodramatic as it was. But he fancied that Stephen Foster’s pursing mouth disclosed symptoms of doubt. The various expressions that followed his story were typical.
“What a terrible experience!” This from Kitty Whiting. “I think you showed great resourcefulness and bravery, Mr. Lyman. I think a great many men would have given the true figures under such circumstances. If you had not been able to get away, and to jump over—in the fog—with the tide running out—You have increased my indebtedness to you.”
“It is just what I should have expected,” said Lynda Warner. Her eyes were shining as she nodded at Jim. “I mean Mr. Lyman’s share in it.”
Newton Foster was ungrudging enough.
“I wish I had been along,” he said, “You handled it in bully shape. I hope you broke Hellfire’s jaw for him. But how he found out where you were on the road to our house, how he knew you had the figures, how he knew about the pearls, is a mystery to me.”
“Quite romantic,” was the start of Stephen Foster’s contribution. “As to Swenson,” he went on, “there has been a good deal of publicity, now and again, concerning the Golden Dolphin, when it sailed and when it was reported missing. Swenson may have read it long ago and retained interest. One of your men who was with you in the boat, Lyman, after he was wrecked might have got in touch with him. There are several possibilities. The local end of it is mysterious. The main factor is that Swenson has failed. He may think you drowned; he may think you were hit when he fired. If he has any idea you got clear, he will be likely to lie low. He may well be one of the rum-running community, and he and his schooner will readily disappear for a while. We could stir up the Wareham police, but that again might give notoriety that would be inadvisable. I should advise you to see a doctor about that hand, Lyman, I recommend my own, Dr. Dimmock. I will call him up if you like.”
“I thank you,” said Jim. “It is not uncomfortable. It seems to me there are more important things right now.” Foster was the cold-eyed business man once more, his mouth tight-lipped.
“As you like,” he said. “Kitty, I still think that the chances for success are extremely limited. Personally I should vote against it. However, I have already told Newton that if he is determined to join with you I withdraw opposition. My chief worry is for your ultimate disappointment concerning your father. Castles built on hopes that are largely sentimental fall with a crash too often, and you might get hurt in the ruins.
“Newton has money of his own. He has also an equal interest with me in my share of the pearls.…”
“I am not going after the pearls, Father. I am going because—because Kitty should not be allowed to go alone. Of course Lynda has offered—but I mean without a male relative.”
“Of course. And youth is naturally adventurous. I was about to say that Newton has ample funds to bear the entire expense if he wants to make the gamble.”
“I intend to. Let me do that, Kitty. If—if the thing should peter out all round, you wouldn’t want to feel that you had nothing to come back to. Unless—” The word and the pause that followed it were eloquent of Newton’s personal interest in his cousin, rather than the actual objects of the trip. But he saw that he had been precipitate and hurried on to cover the slip. “It wouldn’t do for you to burn all your bridges and sell this business.”
“I have already sold it,” said the girl. Her uncle made a muffled exclamation.
“The deal has been closed by wire. The transfer will be made tomorrow. The purchaser is coming up from Hartford. It was a good bargain on both sides. I got my price, sufficient, I hope, for expenses. Twenty-seven thousand dollars.”
“You don’t mean to tell me you got that price for your stock and good will?” exclaimed Stephen Foster incredulously, seemingly annoyed, perhaps at not having been consulted, perhaps—thought Jim—at finding his niece so close to independence.
“I