<h2 id="c8"><span class="sc">Chapter VIII</span> <br/><span class="small">THE MAN WITH THE NERVOUS AFFLICTION</span></h2>
<p>Bill came to the surface a few yards from
the motor boat. Three or four quick strokes
brought him to the side, where with the help
of an extended hand, he clambered aboard to
face the stranger.</p>
<p>Getting back his wind, Bill took stock of
the man. His first impression had been of
his slight build, but on closer scrutiny Bill
saw that he was well-knit, with very broad
shoulders. He had a rather sallow, clean-shaven
face, with unexpectedly large and very
bright dark eyes. These eyes never left Bill
for a second as he opened the throttle and
sent the boat skimming round the end of the
island.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_112">112</div>
<p>“That was a very nice dive,” the man spoke
abruptly, with a quick nod as if to emphasize
the point. “Fond of swimming, aren’t you?
Though not as keen on it as you were this
morning, eh?” He grinned at what he considered
a good joke and nodded his head emphatically.</p>
<p>Bill began to realize that this continual
nodding must be a form of nervousness and
that probably the man himself was unconscious
of it.</p>
<p>“Thanks for the lift, Mr.—er—Sanders?”
he said.</p>
<p>“That’s right—Sanders is the name,” the
man at the wheel jerked out. “The young
lady recognized me, it seems. Needn’t have
been so dramatic about it, though. I kind
of guessed you’d have enough of Pig Island
by this time.”</p>
<p>“What made you think so?”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_113">113</div>
<p>“Well,” Mr. Sanders nodded, “there’s no
reason to keep the thing a secret. I moseyed
over to the island a few hours ago. Tied up
down t’other end from the houses. Happened
to overhear Deborah talking to old Jim.
Caught on to the fact they’d taken you for
Slim Johnson, and that they meant to keep
you with them a while.”</p>
<p>“And they didn’t know you were spying?”
The more Bill saw of his smiling, nodding
rescuer, the less he liked him.</p>
<p>“Oh, it ain’t likely I let ’em catch sight of
me! I don’t know about the girl, but old
Jim Hancock is one of those fellers who
never misses with a rifle.”</p>
<p>“So you, I take it, Mr. Sanders, are working
for the other side in this mysterious business?”</p>
<p>“I <i>am</i> the other side, Mr. Midshipman
Bolton. What made you think I’d want to
chum up with Evans’ secretary?”</p>
<p>“Evans’ secretary!” Bill repeated in
amazement. “You mean—that girl—Deborah—is
his secretary?”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_114">114</div>
<p>“Surest thing you know, young man. Evans
owns Pig Island—didn’t he tell you that?”</p>
<p>Mr. Sanders laughed sardonically and
nodded until Bill thought he would burst
a blood vessel—he hoped he would.</p>
<p>“And so,” said Bill, light dawning at last,
“you decided it would be swell to have me
throw myself into your arms, as it were. And
before those people on the island and I woke
up to the fact that we were on the same side
of the fence in this mixup!” Mentally he
cursed himself for his impulsiveness.</p>
<p>“Who’d have thought you’d tumble so
fast?” sneered Sanders.</p>
<p>Then as Bill made a threatening move toward
him, an automatic whipped into sight
from beneath Sanders’ armpit.</p>
<p>“Oh, no you don’t, sonny!” he barked.
“It won’t pay you to get nasty with me. Sit
down! It’s time you learned a few things,
you young whelp!”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_115">115</div>
<p>“There’s no doubt about that,” Bill agreed
bitterly, looking into the blue-black muzzle
some four feet away. He bent backward as
though to sit down on the thwart, when without
warning his right leg shot out and he
planted a smashing blow with his bare foot
upon the under side of Sander’s wrist. The
automatic flew harmlessly overside, while the
astounded man found himself seized by his
tingling wrist. His arm was jerked forward
with a suddenness that almost wrenched it
from the socket, while Bill’s other arm
wrapped tightly about the semi-paralyzed
member. There came another wrench, and
dizzying pain, and he went headfirst out of
the boat, after his revolver. When he rose
to the surface, his craft was already some
yards away.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_116">116</div>
<p>“As I said before,” Bill called to him,
“there’s no doubt about it. You should learn
<i>savatte</i>—the French method of foot-boxing,
you know. That arm-hold I learned among
others from a <i>jiu-jitsu</i> professor—a Jap. It
pays to have international tastes. Incidentally
I don’t think the current is bad about here.
You’re only about sixty yards from shore.
Cheerio—as they say in Merry England. A
pleasant swim, Mister Sanders!”</p>
<p>Sanders said nothing. He felt too sick
even to swear. His right arm pained him so
that he turned on his back and headed for
shore, using his left and both legs as a means
to propel his aching body.</p>
<p>Bill widened his throttle and sped up the
motor boat, keeping the shore line on his left.
A mile farther on he came to the mouth of the
cove where he had bathed with Charlie that
morning. He shut off the engine and took a
survey of his surroundings.</p>
<p>The gentle breeze had gone with the morning.
Not a branch moved, not a leaf stirred
on the trees above the rocks. Bill guessed it
must be close to seven in the evening, for the
sun was barely discernible above the woods,
and long shadows lay upon the quiet water.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_117">117</div>
<p>Next, he made a thorough inspection of
the boat which brought to light two interesting
items. In a locker forward he came upon
the clothes he had left on the beach that
morning. Bill was delighted, for this find
provided him with two things he needed
badly, shoes and a watch.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_118">118</div>
<p>Beneath the clothes was a light overcoat of
covert cloth, apparently the property of
Sanders. He pulled it out and was about to
put it back again, when a thought struck him.
A closer inspection of the coat brought forth,
first, a pair of pigskin gloves, then from
the inside pocket, Bill extracted three envelopes.</p>
<p>All three of these missives bore the Stamford,
Connecticut, postmark, and all three
were addressed to</p>
<div class="verse">
<p class="t0">Zenas Sanders,</p>
<p class="t2">General Delivery,</p>
<p class="t4">Clayton, Maine.</p>
</div>
<div class="pb" id="Page_119">119</div>
<p>Without the slightest hesitation, Bill took
the papers from the slit envelopes. Two
proved to be bills; one for repairs on a car,
the other from a tailor for three suits of
clothes. The third letter, however, was
headed “Gring’s Hotel, Stamford, Conn.,”
and bore the date of three days earlier. It
ran—</p>
<blockquote>
<p>“Dear Sanders—Just a line to say I have
engaged the experts as directed. Got them
in the big city and they sure do ask a big
price. But that is your business.</p>
<p>“Now you have located the exact position,
it either means taking the Evans’ bunch for
a ride or making a snappy job of it. Personally
I don’t think it can be done in one
night.</p>
<p>“Don’t write any more. Both mails and
telegraph are too risky. That gink Evans is
wide awake. He’s watching this end too—and
you know he’s intercepted two messages
already. I know what to do, but if you must
send your fool instructions, send them by
word of mouth, or better still, fly down here
and go up with us. Then we could run in
nights and stand out to sea day times, and you
would be on board to direct operations. That
would stop Evans having you followed up
there when you join us as you must eventually.
Also if we don’t write any more there’ll be
no chance of his being able to get documentary
evidence. If you send a man, let
him say Zenas and nod like you. Then I’ll
know he’s Okay.</p>
<p><span class="jr">“Yours,</span>
<span class="jr">“Slim.”</span></p>
</blockquote>
<div class="pb" id="Page_120">120</div>
<p>Bill read this over three times. The
writer, he guessed, must be Harold Johnson,
the fellow he had been taken for on the
island. He recalled distinctly that Sanders
had referred to him as “Slim.” Who or what
the “experts” were he had hired, was beyond
Bill. On the other hand it was obvious that
Slim feared Mr. Evans. The scheme, as he
saw it, was that Johnson and his men intended
coming by boat to Maine, where Sanders had
been successful in locating something they
wanted. And, having arrived in Maine
waters, the boat would put her crew of gangsters
ashore at night and stand off the coast
day times. That robbery of some sort was
their objective, Bill had not the slightest
doubt.</p>
<p>But what they intended to steal or where it
was located, Slim had not said. Perhaps it
was something concealed at Turner’s—hidden
in a safe, possibly—and the “experts”
had been hired to get it. Still, if Mr. Evans
was hiding something in a safe at Turner’s,
what prevented him from moving it to the
strong room of some metropolitan bank,
where it would be beyond reach of both
Sanders and Johnson? Bill discarded the
idea of the safe then and there. The best
he could do was to get in touch with Mr.
Evans or his men just as soon as possible.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_121">121</div>
<p>He slipped the letter back into the overcoat
pocket, and folding the coat, replaced
it in the locker. He did not want Sanders
to guess that he had read that letter. Then
he thought over a plan of procedure. If he
took the motor boat to Pig Island, he must
take the coat with him, and Sanders’ suspicions
would be aroused. If, on the other
hand, he beached the craft and made for
Turner’s, Sanders, who was very likely now
footing it for the cove, might think that in
his hurry Bill had overlooked Slim’s letter.
Also, he would be more likely to find Mr.
Evans at Turner’s, and then, there was
Charlie to be considered. If the boy had
reached the house and his father had not
turned up, he would be forced to stay in that
gloomy place himself overnight, a prospect
that not even Bill relished.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_122">122</div>
<p>As he reached these conclusions, Bill sent
the motorboat skimming into the cove and
beached her. Then, slipping into his socks
and shoes, he picked up the remainder of his
clothes. It took him but a moment to cross
the sand and climb the rocks. Soon he was
jogging along the lane at a smart trot. He
neither met nor saw a single soul. At last he
gained the back door by way of the overgrown
shrubbery. He found the key under the mat
where they had left it after breakfast. Bill
inserted it in the lock and walked into the
back entry.</p>
<p>Instead of calling Charlie, he walked into
the big kitchen and looked about. Everything
seemed exactly as they had left it after
washing up that morning.</p>
<p>“Well, it’s a cinch the kid never got back
here,” he said to himself. “He’d have spent
most of the day in here, consuming provisions,
and there’s not a thing been touched. I’d
better make sure, though—and if I can scare
up a gun of sorts, all to the good!”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_123">123</div>
<p>His inspection of the entire house, including
the cellar, proved his surmise to be
well founded. He was alone in the place.
Charlie, he figured, had either trudged into
Clayton to get in touch with Ezra Parker,
or he had been captured by Sanders and his
men.</p>
<p>And then it occurred to Bill that it would
be well for him to see Parker himself, tonight,
so he went down the tunnel to the
garage and switched on the lights.</p>
<p>It was dark by the time he got back to the
library. He went the rounds of the ground
floor again, turning on electrics as he went.
If Bill was to be caught by anybody around
the spooky house, it would not be unawares,
if he could help it.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_124">124</div>
<p>He got himself some supper and ate it in
the kitchen. But somehow, after going to
the trouble of preparing food, he had little
appetite. The possibility that the house
might have another hidden entrance of which
he knew nothing made him feel nervous and
jumpy, especially since he had not found
anything remotely resembling a firearm of
any sort.</p>
<p>After he had washed his plate and cup at
the kitchen sink, he went back to the library,
and pulling down a book at random from the
shelves, went out of the room to the hall.</p>
<p>He had decided to wait until eleven, and
then make tracks through the woods to Twin
Heads Harbor. Ezra Parker was due to fly
over the house at midnight and the lighted
garage would be sure to send him to the
harbor directly afterward.</p>
<p>Bill planned to spend the intervening time
in the comfortable alcove which formed a
little lounge below the staircase in the hall.
Here he could at once be aware of the slightest
movement from any part of the house.
And with the curtains drawn, he was shut off
like a monk in his cell.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_125">125</div>
<p>But instead of settling down to his book,
he grew restless. Twice he got up and examined
the shutters on that floor to make sure
they were barred. Each time he went back
to his curtained retreat, ashamed of himself.
This house was giving him the creeps. For
some reason, he could not tell why, his nerves
were on edge.</p>
<p>As ten o’clock chimed faintly from the
mantel timepiece, he thought he heard footsteps.
He started up, reviling himself for
his folly. The house was old, and it was only
the stairs above him that creaked softly.
With calm deliberation he brushed past the
curtain into the hall, determined to pull himself
together.</p>
<p>Standing at the foot of the staircase, a hand
on the great oak balustrade, he could hear the
quiet patter of a mouse behind the panelling.
The tick of the little clock in the alcove, and
the hiss and sigh of the wind without, were
all that broke the silence of the night. No
human being save himself seemed to be
stirring for miles around.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_126">126</div>
<p>Slowly, in stocking feet, he walked down
the kitchen passage, paused, and slowly returned.
Then he mounted the stairs. All
was quiet above. An impulse took him up
the narrow stairway to the third story, where
he looked out a window at the end of the
corridor. The night was dark and only a
grayish glimmer marked the sea. The island
was invisible. Up there, with the still house
below him, he felt like an onlooker in some
mysterious play where life and death were
casual matters and any means were fair if
they led to triumph.</p>
<p>But there was nothing to be gained by pursuing
such thoughts—and far from being an
onlooker, Bill was very much in the thick of
it all. He descended, made another tour of
the ground floor, and returned to the alcove.
Feeling distinctly more cheerful, he ate a
couple of cookies, took up his book and began
to read. Perhaps five minutes later, he heard
a gentle tap—</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_127">127</div>
<p>It was not imagination this time. Of that
he was quite certain. Bill was perfectly
calm. He had got over his bout of restlessness
that had kept him on the jump. The
only disturbing point about the sound was
whether it came from within or without the
house.</p>
<p>A leaf blowing against a window, that
might have caused it. The creak of an old
beam would have made the same sound. He
waited in silence, and kept a tight grip on
himself. No more strung-up nerves, whether
this was a false alarm or not. Perhaps a
minute later, he heard the click again.</p>
<p>With an exclamation of annoyance, Bill
got to his feet, brushed aside the curtain, and
peered into the hall.</p>
<p>He found himself face to face with Mr.
Zenas Sanders.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_129">129</div>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />