But the
day went by and nothing happened, except that Captain Andrius was very
polite to his guests and that the yacht, a particularly fast sailer,
continued to make headway through the grey seas, sometimes in bare sight
of land and sometimes out of it. To one or two inquiries as to the
fulfilment of his promise Andrius made no more answer than a reassuring
nod; once when Vickers pressed him, he replied curtly that the day was
not yet over. Vickers drew Copplestone aside on hearing that.
"Look here!" he said. "I've been reckoning things up as near as I can. I
make out that we've been running due north, or north-east ever since we
left Scarhaven last night. I reckon, too, that this vessel makes quite
twenty-two or three, knots an hour. We must be off the extreme north-east
coast of Scotland. And night's coming on!"
"There are ports there that he can put into," said Copplestone. "The
thing is--will he keep his promise? Remember!--he must know very well
that if we once land anywhere within reach of a telegraph office, we can
wire particulars about him to every port in the world if we like--and
he's got to go somewhere, eventually, you know."
Vickers shook his head as if this were a problem he would give up. It was
beyond him, he said, to even guess at what Andrius was after, or what was
going to happen. And nothing did happen until, as the three prisoners sat
at dinner with their polite gaoler, the _Pike_ came to a sudden stop and
hung gently on a quiet sea.
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