"I meant to slip away from 'em at a Scotch port we was to call
at, and then--"
"Then you'd have gone back to the hidden chests and helped
yourself," sneered Vickers. "Chatfield, you're a wicked old
scoundrel, and an unmitigated liar! Give me that paper that Miss
Greyle signed, this instant!"
"No!" interjected Audrey. "Let him keep it. He'll have trouble enough
presently. It's very evident they mean to have him."
Chatfield heard the last few words and looked round at the edge of the
surf. The boat had grounded on the shingle, and half a dozen men had
leapt from it and were coming rapidly up the beach.
"Armed, by George!" exclaimed Copplestone. "No chance for you,
Chatfield!"
The agent suddenly sprang to his feet with a howl of terror. He gave one
more glance at the men and then he ran, clumsily, but with a speed made
desperate by terror. He made straight for the rocks--and at that, two of
the men, at a word from their leader, raised their rifles and fired. And
with a shriek that set all the echoes ringing, the sea-birds screaming,
and made Audrey clap her hands to her ears, Chatfield threw up his arms
and dropped heavily on the sands.
"That's sheer murder!" exclaimed Vickers, as the yachtsmen came
running up. "You'll answer for that, you know. Unless you mean to
murder all of us."
The leader, a smiling-faced fellow, touched his cap respectfully, and
grinned from ear to ear.
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