"The thing's moving!"
There was no doubt of that very pertinent fact. Somewhere beneath them,
machinery began to work; above them there was hurry and scurry as ropes
and stays were thrown off. But so beautifully built was that yacht, and
so almost sound-proof the luxurious cabin in which they were prisoners,
that little of the noise of departure came to them. However, there was no
mistaking the increasing throb of the engines nor the fact that the
vessel was moving, and Vickers suddenly sprang on a lounge seat and moved
away a silken screen which curtained a port-hole window.
"There's no doubt of that!" he exclaimed.
"We're going through the outer harbour--we've passed the light at the end
of the quay. What do these people mean by carrying us out to sea?
Copplestone!--with all submission to you--whether it's relevant or not, I
wish we knew more of that captain chap!"
"I know him," remarked Audrey. "I have been on this yacht before. His
name is Andrius. He's an American--or American-Norwegian, or something
like that."
"And the crew?" asked Vickers. "Are they Scarhaven men?"
"No," replied Audrey. "There isn't a Scarhaven man amongst them. My
cousin--I mean--you know whom I mean--bought this yacht just as it stood,
from an American millionaire early this spring, and he took over the
captain, crew, and everything."
"So--we're in the hands of strangers!" exclaimed Vickers, while
Copplestone dug his hands into his pockets and began to stamp about.
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