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The Box with Broken Seals (Strange Case of Mr. Jocelyn Thew), a novel by E. Phillips Oppenheim |
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Chapter 12 |
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_ CHAPTER XII Throughout the night reigned an almost sepulchral silence, and when the morning broke, the _City of Boston_, at a scarcely reduced speed, was ploughing her way through great banks of white fog. The decks, the promenade rails, every exposed part of the steamer, were glistening with wet. Up on the bridge, three officers besides the captain stood with eyes fixed in grim concentration upon the dense curtains of mist which seemed to shut them off altogether from the outer world. Jocelyn Thew and Crawshay met in the companionway, a few minutes after breakfast. "I can see no object in the disuse of the hooter," Crawshay declared querulously. "Nothing at sea could be worse than a collision. We are simply taking our lives in our hands, tearing along like this at sixteen knots an hour." "Isn't there supposed to be a German raider out?" the other enquired. "I think it is exceedingly doubtful whether there is really one in the Atlantic at all. The English gunboats patrol these seas. Besides, we are armed ourselves, and she wouldn't be likely to tackle us." Jocelyn Thew had leaned a little forward. He was listening intently. At the same time, one of the figures upon the bridge, his hand to his ear, turned in the same direction. "There's some one who doesn't mind letting their whereabouts be known," he whispered, after a moment's pause. "Can't you hear a hooter?" Crawshay listened but shook his head. "Can't hear a thing," he declared laconically. "I've a cold in my head coming on, and it always affects my hearing." Jocelyn Thew stepped on tiptoe across the deck as far as the rail and returned in a few minutes. "There's a steamer calling, away on the starboard bow," he announced. "She seems to be getting nearer, too. I wonder we don't alter our course." "Well, I suppose it's the captain's business whether he chooses to answer or not," Crawshay remarked. "I shall go down to my cabin. This gazing at nothing gets on my nerves." Jocelyn Thew returned to his damp vigil. Leaning over the wet wooden rail, he drew a little diagram on the back of an envelope and worked out some figures. Then he listened once more, the slight frown upon his forehead deepening. Finally he tore up his sketch and made his way to the doctor's room. The doctor was seated at his desk and glanced up enquiringly as his visitor entered. "I just looked in to see how young Robins was getting on," Jocelyn explained. "I am afraid he is in rather a bad way," was the grave reply. "What is the nature of his illness?" The doctor shrugged his shoulders. His manner became a little vague. "I must remind you, Mr. Thew," he said, "that a doctor is not always at liberty to discuss the ailments of his patients. On board ship this custom becomes more, even, than mere etiquette. It is, in fact, against the regulations of the company for us to discuss the maladies of any passenger upon the steamer." "I recognise the truth of all that you say," Jocelyn Thew agreed, "but it happens that I know the young man and his people. Naturally, therefore, I take an interest in him, and I am sure they would think it strange if, travelling upon the same steamer, I did not make these very ordinary enquiries." "You know his people, do you?" the doctor repeated. "Where does he come from, Mr. Thew?" "Somewhere over New Jersey way," was the glib reply, "but I used to meet his father often in New York. There can be no mystery about his illness, can there, doctor--no reason why I should not go and see him?" "I have placed the young man in quarantine," was the brief explanation, "and until he is released no one can go near him." "Something catching, eh?" "Something that might turn out to be catching." Jocelyn Thew shrugged his shoulders and accepted what amounted almost to a little nod of dismissal. He ascended the staircase thoughtfully and came face to face with Katharine Beverley, issuing from the music room. She greeted him with a little exclamation of relief. "Mr. Thew," she exclaimed, "I have been looking for you everywhere. Doctor Gant thinks," she added, lowering her voice, "that if you wish to see his patient alive, you had better come at once." "There is a change in his condition, then?" "Yes," she told him gravely. He stood for a moment thinking rapidly. The girl shivered a little as she watched the change in his face. Her hospital training had not lessened her awe and sympathy in the face of death, and it was so entirely obvious that Jocelyn Thew was considering only what influence upon his plans this event might have. Finally he turned and descended the stairs by her side. "I am not at all sure that it is wise of me to come," he said. "However, if he is asking for me I suppose I had better." They made their way into the commodious stateroom upon the saloon deck, which had been secured for the sick man. He lay upon a small hospital bed, nothing of him visible save his haggard face, with its ill-grown beard. His eyes were watching the door, and he showed some signs of gratification at Jocelyn's entrance. Gant, who was standing over the bed, turned apologetically towards the latter. "It's the money," he whispered. "He is worrying about that. I was obliged to send for you. He called out your name just now, and the ship's doctor was hanging around." The newcomer drew a stool to the side of the bed, opened a pocketbook and counted out a great wad of notes. The dying man watched him with every appearance of interest. "Five thousand dollars," the former said at last. "That should bring in about eleven hundred and fifty pounds. Now watch me, Phillips." He took an envelope from his pocket, thrust the notes inside, gummed down the flap, and, drawing a fountain pen from his pocket, wrote an address. The dying man watched him and nodded feebly. "These," Jocelyn continued, "are for your wife. The packet shall be delivered to her within twelve hours of our landing in Liverpool. You can keep it under your pillow and hand it over to Miss Beverley here. You trust her?" The man on the bed nodded feebly and turned slightly towards Katharine. She bent over him. "I shall see myself," she promised, "that the money is properly delivered." Phillips smiled and closed his eyes. It was obvious that he had no more to say. Jocelyn Thew stole softly out, followed, a moment later, by Katharine. "The doctor thinks I am better away," she whispered. "He won't speak again. Poor fellow!" Jocelyn stepped softly up the stairs and drew a little breath of relief as they reached the promenade deck without meeting any one. Both seemed to feel the desire for fresh air, and they stepped outside for a moment. There were tears in Katharine's eyes. "Of course," she said, a little timidly, "I don't understand this at all, but it is terribly tragic. Do you think that he would have lived if he had not undertaken the journey?" "It was absolutely impossible," her companion assured her. "He was a dying man from the moment the operation was finished." "Will he be buried at sea?" "I think not. He was exceedingly anxious to be buried at his home near Chester. It isn't a pleasant thing to talk about," Jocelyn went on, "but they brought his coffin on board with him. It's lying in the companionway now, covered over with a rug." She shivered. "It's a horrible day altogether," she declared, looking out into the seemingly endless banks of mist. "Entirely my opinion, Miss Beverley," a voice said in her ear. "I find it most depressing--and unhealthy. And listen.--Do you hear that?" They all listened intently. Again they could hear the hooting of a steamer in the distance. "Between ourselves," Crawshay went on confidentially, "the captain seems to me rather worried. That steamer has been following us for hours. She is evidently waiting for the fog to lift, to see who we are." "How does she know about us?" Katharine asked. "We haven't blown our hooter once." "We don't need to," was the fractious reply. "That's where we are being over-careful. She can hear our engines distinctly." "Who does the captain think she is, then?" Crawshay's voice was dropped to a mysterious pitch, but though he leaned towards the girl, his eyes were fixed upon her companion. "He doesn't go as far as to express a definite opinion, but he thinks that it might be that German raider--the _Blucher_, isn't it? She can steal about quite safely in the fog, and she can tell by the beat of the engines whether she is near a man-of-war or not." Not a muscle of Jocelyn's face twitched, but there was a momentary gleam in his eyes of which Crawshay took swift note. He glanced aft to where the two seamen were standing by the side of their guns. "If it really is the German raider," he remarked, "they might as well fire off a popgun as that thing. She is supposed to be armed with four six-inch guns and two torpedo tubes." Crawshay nodded. "So I told the captain. We might have a go at a submarine, but the raider would sink us in two minutes if we tried to tackle her. What a beastly voyage this is!" he went on, in a depressed tone. "I can't get over the fact that I risked my life to get on board, too." Jocelyn Thew, with a little word of excuse, had swung around and disappeared. Katharine looked at her companion curiously. "Do you believe that it really is the raider, Mr. Crawshay?" she enquired. He hesitated. In Jocelyn's absence his manner seemed to undergo some subtle change, his tone to become crisper and less querulous. "We had some reason to hope," he said cautiously, "that she was on a different course. It is just possible, however, that in changing it she might have struck this bank of fog and preferred to hang about for a time." "What will happen if she finds us?" "That depends entirely upon circumstances." "I have an idea," Katharine continued, "that you know more about this matter than you feel inclined to divulge." "Perhaps," he admitted. "Nowadays, every one has to learn discretion." "Is it necessary with me?" "It is necessary with any friend of Mr. Jocelyn Thew," he told her didactically. "What a suspicious person you are!" she exclaimed, a little scornfully. "You are just like all your countrymen. You get hold of an idea and nothing can shake it. Mr. Jocelyn Thew, I dare say, possesses a past. I know for a fact that he has been engaged in all sorts of adventures during his life. But--at your instigation, I suppose--they have already searched his person, his stateroom, and every article of luggage he has. After that, why not leave him alone?" "Because he is an extremely clever person." "Then you are not satisfied yet?" "Not yet." "Am I, may I ask, under suspicion?" she enquired, with faint sarcasm. "I should not like to say," he replied glibly, "that you were altogether free from it." She laughed heartily. "I should not worry about the army if I were you," she advised. "I am quite sure that secret-service work is the natural outlet for your talents." "I shouldn't be surprised," he confided, "if headquarters didn't insist upon my taking it up permanently. It will depend a little, of course, upon what success I have during this voyage." She laughed in his face and turned away. "I will tell you what I find so interesting about you, Mr. Crawshay," she said. "You must be either very much cleverer than you seem, or very much more foolish. You keep me continually guessing as to which it is." _ |
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