Chapter 11

A LIVELY MORNING IN EXCHANGE BUILDINGS

Coke and his merry men became pirates during the early morning of Thursday, September 2d; the curious reader can ascertain the year by looking up "Brazil" in any modern Encyclopedia, and turning to the sub-division "Recent History." On Monday, September 6th, David Verity entered his office in Exchange Buildings, Liverpool, hung his hat and overcoat on their allotted pegs, swore at the office boy because some spots of rain had come in through an open window, and ran a feverish glance through his letters to learn if any envelopes bearing the planetary devices of the chief cable companies had managed to hide themselves among the mass of correspondence.

The act was perfunctory. Well he knew that telephone or special messenger would speedily have advised him if news of the _Andromeda_ had arrived since he left the office on Saturday afternoon. But it is said that drowning men clutch at straws, and the metaphor might be applied to Verity with peculiar aptness. He was sinking in a sea of troubles, sinking because the old buoyancy was gone, sinking because many hands were stretched forth to push him under, and never one to draw him forth.

There was no cablegram, of course. Dickey Bulmer, who had become a waking nightmare to the unhappy shipowner, had said there wouldn't be--said it twelve hours ago, after wringing from Verity the astounding admission that Iris was on board the _Andromeda_. It was not because the vessel was overdue that David confessed. Bulmer, despite his sixty-eight years, was an acute man of business. Moreover, he was blessed with a retentive memory, and he treasured every word of the bogus messages from Iris concocted by her uncle. They were lucid at first, but under the stress of time they wore thin, grew disconnected, showed signs of the strain imposed on their author's imagination. Bulmer, a typical Lancashire man, blended in his disposition a genial openhandedness with a shrewd caution. He could display a princely generosity in dealing with Verity as the near relative and guardian of his promised wife; to the man whom he suspected of creating the obstacles that kept her away from him he applied a pitiless logic.

The storm had burst unexpectedly. Bulmer came to dinner, ate and drank and smoked in quiet amity until David's laboring muse conveyed his niece's latest "kind love an' good wishes," and then----

"Tell you wot," said Dickey, "there's another five thousand due to-morrow on the surveyor's report."

"There is," said Verity, knowing that his guest and prospective partner alluded to the new steamer in course of construction on the Clyde.

"Well, it won't be paid."

David lifted his glass of port to hide his face. Was this the first rumbling of the tempest? Though expected hourly, he was not prepared for it. His hand trembled. He dared not put the wine to his lips.

"Wot's up now?" he asked.

"You're playin' some underhand game on me, David, an' I won't stand it," was the unhesitating reply. "You're lyin' about Iris. You've bin lyin' ever since she disappeared from Bootle. Show me 'er letters an' their envelopes, an' I'll find the money. But, of course, you can't. They don't exist. Now, own up as man to man, an' I'll see if this affair can be settled without the lawyers. You know wot it means once _they_ take hold."

Then David set down the untasted wine and told the truth. Not all--that was not to be dreamed of. In the depths of his heart he feared Bulmer. The old man's repute for honesty was widespread. He would fling his dearest friend into prison for such a swindle as that arranged between Coke and the shipowner. But it was a positive relief to divulge everything that concerned Iris. From his pocket-book David produced her frayed letter, and Bulmer read it slowly, aloud, through eyeglasses held at a long focus.

Now, given certain definite circumstances, an honest man and a rogue will always view them differently. David had interpreted the girl's guarded phrases in the light of his villainous compact with Coke. Dickey, unaware of this disturbing element, was inwardly amazed to learn that Verity had lied so outrageously with the sole object of carrying through a commercial enterprise.

"'Tell him I shall marry him when the _Andromeda_ returns to England from South America,'" he read. And again . . . "'The vessel is due back at the end of September, I believe, so Mr. Bulmer will not have long to wait.'"

If, in the first instance, David had not been swept off his feet by the magnitude of the catastrophe, if he had not commenced the series of prevarications before the letter reached him, he might have adopted the only sane course and taken Bulmer fully into his confidence. It was too late now. Explanation was useless. The only plea that occurred to him was more deadly than silence, since it was her knowledge of the contemplated crime that made Iris a stowaway. He had never guessed how that knowledge was attained and the added mystery intensified his torture.

Dickey rose from the table. His movements showed his age that night.

"I'll think it over, David," he said. "There's more in this than meets the eye. I'll just go home an' think it over. Mebbe I'll call at your place in the mornin'."

So here was Verity, awaiting Bulmer's visit as a criminal awaits a hangman. There was no shred of hope in his mind that his one-time crony would raise a finger to save him from bankruptcy. Some offenses are unforgivable, and high in the list ranks the folly of separating a wealthy old man from his promised bride.

Now that a reprieve was seemingly impossible, he faced his misfortunes with a dour courage. It had been a difficult and thankless task during the past month to stave off pressing creditors. With Iris in Bootle and Bulmer her devoted slave, Verity would have weathered the gale with jaunty self-confidence. But that element of strength was lacking; nay, more, he felt in his heart that it could never be replaced. He was no longer the acute, blustering, effusive Verity, who in one summer's afternoon had secured a rich partner and forced an impecunious sailor to throw away a worn-out ship. The insurance held good, of course, and there simply _must_ be some sort of tidings of the _Andromeda_ to hand before the end of September. Yet things had gone wrong, desperately wrong, and he was quaking with the belief that there was worse in store.

He began to read his letters. They were mostly in the same vein, duns, more or less active. His managing clerk entered.

"There's an offer of 5s. 6d. Cardiff to Bilbao and Bilbao to the Tyne for the _Hellespont_. It is better than nothing. Shall we take it, sir?"

The _Hellespont_ was the firm's other ship. She, too, was old and running at a loss.

"Yes. Wot is it, coal or patent fuel?"

"Coal, with a return freight of ore."

"Wish it was dynamite, with fuses laid on."

The clerk grinned knowingly. Men grow callous when money tilts the scale against human lives.

"There's no news of the _Andromeda_, and _her_ rate is all right," he said.

David scowled at him.

"D--n the rate!" he cried. "I want to 'ear of the ship. Wot the----"

But his subordinate vanished. David read a few more letters. Some were from the families of such of the _Andromeda's_ crew as lived in South Shields, the Hartlepools, Whitby. They asked as a great favor that a telegram might be sent when----

"Oh, curse my luck!" groaned the man, quivering under the conviction that the _Andromeda_ was lost "by the act of God" as the charter-party puts it. The belief unnerved him. Those words have an ominous ring in the ears of evil-doers. He could show a bold front to his fellowmen, but he squirmed under the dread conception of a supernatural vengeance. So, like every other malefactor, David railed against his "luck." Little did he guess the extraordinary turn that his "luck" was about to take.

The office boy announced a visitor, evidently not the terrible Bulmer, since he said:

"Gennelman to see yer, sir."

"Oo is it?" growled the shipowner.

"Gennelman from the noospaper, sir."

"Can't be bothered."

"'E sez hit's most himportant, sir."

"Wot is?"

"I dunno, sir."

"Well, show 'im in. I'll soon settle 'im."

A quiet-mannered young man appeared. He ignored David's sharp, "Now, wot can I do for you?" and drew up a chair, on which he seated himself, uninvited.

"May I ask if you have received any private news of the _Andromeda_?" he began.

"No."

"In that case, you must prepare yourself for a statement that may give you a shock," said the journalist.

David creaked round in his chair. His face, not so red as of yore, paled distinctly.

"Is she lost?" said he in a strangely subdued tone.

"I--I fear she is. But there is much more than an ordinary shipwreck at issue. Several telegrams of the gravest import have reached us this morning. Perhaps, before I ask you any questions, you ought to read them. They are in type already, and I have brought you proofs. Here is the first."

David took from the interviewer's outstretched hand a long strip of white paper. For an appreciable time his seething brain refused to comprehend the curiously black letters that grouped themselves into words on the limp sheet. And, indeed, he was not to be blamed if he was dull of understanding, for this is what he read:

"REVOLUTION IN BRAZIL.

"SERIOUS POSITION.

"STARTLING ESCAPADE OF A BRITISH SHIP.

"RIO DE JANEIRO, September 5th. A situation of exceptional gravity has evidently arisen on the island of Fernando do Noronha, whence, it is said, ex-President De Sylva recently attempted to escape. A battleship and two cruisers have been despatched thither under forced draught. No public telegrams have been received from the island during the past week, and the authorities absolutely refuse any information as to earlier events, though the local press hints at some extraordinary developments not unconnected with the appearance off the island of a British steamship known as the _Andromeda_.

"_Later_--De Sylva landed last night at the small port of Maceio in the province of Alagoas, a hundred miles south of Pernambuco. It is currently reported that Fernando Noronha was captured by a gang of British freebooters. De Sylva's return is unquestionable. To-day he issued a proclamation, and his partisans have seized some portion of the railway. Excitement here is at fever heat."

Verity glared at the journalist. He laughed, almost hysterically.

"The _Andromeda_!" he gasped. "Wot rot! Wot silly rot!"

"Better withhold your opinion until you have mastered the whole story," was the unemotional comment. "Here is a more detailed message. It is printed exactly as cabled. We have not added a syllable except the interpolation of such words as 'that' and 'the.' You will find it somewhat convincing, I imagine."

The shipowner grasped another printed slip. This time he was able to read more lucidly:

"PERNAMBUCO, September 4th. Public interest in the abortive attempt to reinstate Dom Corria De Sylva as President was waning rapidly when it was fanned into fresh activity by news that reached this port to-day. It appears that on the 31st ulto. a daring effort was made to free De Sylva, who, with certain other ministers expelled by the successful revolution of two years ago, is a prisoner on the island of Fernando do Noronha. Lloyd's agent on that island reports that the British steamer _Andromeda_, owned by David Verity & Co. of Liverpool, put into South Bay, on the southeast side of Fernando do Noronha, early on the morning of August 31st, and it is alleged that her mission was to take De Sylva and his companions on board. The garrison, forewarned by the central government, and already on the _qui vive_ owing to the disappearance of their important prisoners from their usual quarters, opened fire on the _Andromeda_ as soon as she revealed her purpose by lowering a boat.

"The steamer, being unarmed, made no attempt to defend herself, and was speedily disabled. She sank, within five minutes, off the Grand-père rock, with all on board. With reckless bravado, her commander ran up the vessel's code signals and house flag while she was actually going down, thus establishing her identity beyond a shadow of doubt. A note of pathos is added to the tragedy by the undoubted presence of a lady on board--probably De Sylva's daughter, though it was believed here that the ex-President's family were in Paris. Telegrams from the island are strictly censored, and the foregoing statement is unofficial, but your correspondent does not question its general accuracy. Indeed, he has reason to credit a widespread rumor that the island is still in a very disturbed condition. No one knows definitely whether or not De Sylva has been recaptured. It is quite certain that he has not landed in Brazil, but the reticence of the authorities as to the state of affairs on Fernando Noronha leads to the assumption that he and a few stanch adherents are still in hiding in one of the many natural fastnesses with which the island abounds.

"The British community on the littoral is deeply stirred by the drastic treatment received by the _Andromeda_. It is pointed out that another ship, the _Andros-y-Mela_, believed to have been chartered by the insurgents, is under arrest at Bahia, and the similarity between the two names is regarded as singular, to say the least. Were it not that Lloyd's agent, whose veracity cannot be questioned, has stated explicitly that the _Andromeda_ put in to South Bay--a point significantly far removed from the regular track of trading vessels--it might be urged that a terrible mistake had been made. In any event, the whole matter must be strictly inquired into, and one of His Majesty's ships stationed in the South Atlantic should visit the island at the earliest date possible. _Delayed in transmission_."

Something buzzed inside Verity's head and stilled all sense of actuality. He was unnaturally calm. Though the weather was chilly for early September, great beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead. His eyes were dull; they lacked their wonted shiftiness. He gazed at the reporter unblinkingly, as though thought itself refused to act.

"Is that the lot?" he inquired mechanically.

"Nearly all, at present. These cablegrams reached us through London, and the agency took the earliest measures to substantiate their accuracy. The Brazilian Embassy pooh-poohs the whole story, but Embassies invariably do that until the news is stale. By their own showing, Ambassadors are singularly ill-informed men, especially in matters affecting their own countries. Here, however, is a short telegram from Paris which is of minor interest."

And Verity read again:

"PARIS, September 6th. The members of Dom Corria De Sylva's family, seen early this morning at the Hotel Continental, deny that any lady connected with the cause of Brazilian freedom took part in the attempted rescue of the ex-President. They are much annoyed by the unfounded report, and hold strongly to the opinion that the revolution would now have been a _fait accompli_ had not a traitor revealed the destination of the _Andros-y-Mela_ and thus led to that vessel's detention at Bahia."

The lady! Iris Yorke! At last David's supercharged mind was beginning to assimilate ideas. He was conscious of a fierce pain in the region of his heart. The buzzing in his head continued, and the journalist's voice came to him as through a dense screen.

"You will observe that the former President's relatives tacitly admit that there was a plot on foot," the other was saying. "It is important to note, too, that the long message from Pernambuco, marked 'delayed in transmission' seems to imply a prior telegram which was suppressed. It alludes to a revolt of which nothing is known here. Now, Mr. Verity, I want to ask you----"

The door was flung open. In rushed Dickey Bulmer with a speed strangely disproportionate to his years. In his hands he held a crumpled newspaper.

"You infernal blackguard, have you seen this?" he roared, and his attitude threatened instant assault on the dazed man looking up at him. The reporter moved out of the way. Here, indeed, was "copy" of the right sort. Bulmer held a position of much local importance. That he should use such language to the owner of the _Andromeda_ promised developments "of the utmost public interest."

David stood up. His chair fell over with a crash. He held on to the table to steady himself. Even Bulmer, white with rage, could not fail to see that he was stunned.

But Dickey was not minded to spare him on that account.

"Answer me, you scoundrel!" he shouted, thrusting the paper almost into David's face. "You are glib enough when it suits your purpose. Were _you_ in this? Is this the reason you didn't tell me Iris was on board till I forced the truth out of you last night?"

The managing clerk came in. Behind him, a couple of juniors and the office boy supplied reënforcements. They all had the settled conviction that their employer was a rogue, but he paid them in no niggardly fashion, and they would not suffer anyone to attack him.

This incursion from the external world had a restorative effect on Verity. Being what is termed a self-made man, he had a fine sense of his own importance, and his subordinates' lack of respect forthwith overcame every other consideration.

"Get out!" he growled, waving a hand toward the door.

"But, sir--please, gentlemen----" stuttered the senior clerk.

"Get out, I tell you! D--n yer eyes, 'oo sent for any of you?"

Undoubtedly David was recovering. The discomfited clerks retired. Even Dickey Bulmer was quieted a little. But he still shook the newspaper under David's nose.

"Now!" he cried. "Let's have it. No more of your flamin' made-up tales. Wot took you to shove the _Andromeda_ into a rat-trap of this sort?"

David staggered away from the table. He seemed to be laboring for breath.

"'Arf a mo'. No need to yowl at me like that," he protested.

He fumbled with the lock of a corner cupboard, opened it, and drew forth a decanter and some glasses. A tumbler crashed to the floor, and the slight accident was another factor in clearing his wits. He swore volubly.

"Same thing 'appened that Sunday afternoon," he said, apparently obvious of the other men's presence. "My poor lass upset one, she did. Wish she'd ha' flung it at my 'ed. . . . Did it say 'went down with all 'ands,' mister?" he demanded suddenly of the reporter.

"Yes, Mr. Verity."

"Is it true?"

"I trust not, but Lloyd's agent--well, I needn't tell you that Lloyd's is reliable. Was your niece on board? Is she the lady mentioned in the cablegram?"

Then Bulmer woke up to the fact that there was a stranger present.

"'Ello!" he cried angrily. "Wot are you doin' ere? 'Oo are you? Be off, instantly."

"I am not going until Mr. Verity hears what I have to ask him, and answers, or not, as he feels disposed," was the firm reply.

"Leave 'im alone, Dickey. It's all right. Wot does it matter now 'oo knows all there is to know? Just gimme a minnit."

Verity poured out some brandy. Man is but a creature of habit, and the hospitable Lancastrian does not drink alone when there is company.

"'Ave a tiddly?" he inquired blandly.

Both Bulmer and the journalist believed that David was losing his faculties. Never did shipowner behave more queerly when faced by a disaster of like magnitude, involving, as did the _Andromeda's_ loss, not only political issues of prime importance, but also the death of a near relative. They refused the proffered refreshment, not without some show of indignation. Verity swallowed a large dose of neat spirit. He thought it would revive him, so, of course, the effect was instantaneous. The same quantity of prussic acid could not have killed him more rapidly than the brandy rallied his scattered forces, and, not being a physiologist, he gave the brandy all the credit.

"Ah!" he said, smacking his lips with some of the old-time relish, "that puts new life into one. An' now, let's get on with the knittin'. I was a bit rattled when this young party steers in an' whacks 'is cock-an'-bull yarn into me 'and. 'Oo ever 'eard of a respectable British ship mixin' 'erself up with a South American revolution? The story is all moonshine on the face of it."

"I think otherwise, Mr. Verity, and Mr. Bulmer, I take it, agrees with me," said the reporter.

"Wot," blazed David, into whose mind had darted a notion that dazzled him by its daring, "d'ye mean to insiniwate that I lent my ship to this 'ere Dom Wot's-'is-name? D'ye sit there an' tell me that Jimmie Coke, a skipper who's bin in my employ for sixteen year, would carry on that sort of fool's business behind 'is owner's back? Go into my clerk's office, young man, an' ax Andrews to show up a copy of the ship's manifest. See w'en an 'ow she was insured. Jot down the names of the freighters for this run, and skip round to their offices to verify. An' if that don't fill the bill, well, just interview yourself, an' say if you'd allow your niece, a bonnie lass like my Iris, to take a trip that might end in 'er bein' blown to bits. It's crool, that's wot it is, reel crool."

David was not simulating this contemptuous wrath. He actually felt it. His harsh voice cracked when he spoke of Iris, and the excited words gushed out in a torrent.

The reporter glanced at Bulmer, who was watching Verity with a tense expectancy that was not to be easily accounted for, since his manner and speech on entering the room had been so distinctly hostile.

"The lady referred to was Miss Iris Yorke, then?"

"'Oo else? I've on'y one niece. My trouble is that she went without my permission, in a way of speakin'. 'Ere, you'd better 'ave the fax. She was engaged to my friend, Mr. Bulmer, but, bein' a slip of a girl, an' fond o' romancin', she just put herself aboard the Andromeeda without sayin' 'with your leave' or 'by your leave.' She wrote me a letter, w'ich sort of explains the affair. D'you want to see it?"

"If I may."

"No," said Bulmer.

"Yes," blustered Verity, fully alive now to the immense possibilities underlying the appearance in print of Iris's references to her forthcoming marriage.

"An' I say 'no,' an' mean it," said the older man. "Go slow, David, go slow. I was not comin 'ere as your enemy when I found this paper bein' cried in the streets. It med me mad for a while. But I believe wot you've said, an' I'm not the man to want my business, or my future wife's I 'ope, to be chewed over by every Dick, Tom, an' 'Arry in Liverpool."

The reincarnation of David was a wonderful spectacle, the most impressive incident the journalist had ever witnessed, did he but know its genesis. The metamorphosis was physical as well as mental. Verity burgeoned before his very eyes.

"Of course, that makes a h-- a tremenjous difference," said the shipowner. "You 'ave my word for it, an' that is enough for most men. Mr. Andrews 'll give you all the information you want. I'll cable now to Rio an' Pernambewco, an' see if I can get any straight news from the shippin' 'ouses there. I'll let you know if I 'ear anything, an' you might do the same by me."

The reporter gave this promise readily. He scented a possible scandal, and meant to keep in touch with Verity. Meanwhile, he was in need of the facts which the managing clerk could supply, so he took himself off.

Bulmer went to the window and looked out. A drizzle of sleet was falling from a gray sky. The atmosphere was heavy. It was a day singularly appropriate to the evil tidings that had shocked him into a fury against the man who had so willfully deceived him. David picked up the proof slips and reread them. He compared them with the paragraphs in the newspaper brought by Bulmer, and thrown by him on the table after his first outburst of helpless wrath. They were identical in wording, of course, but, somehow, their meaning was clearer in the printed page: and David, despite his uncouth diction, was a clever man.

He wrinkled his forehead now in analysis of each line. Soon he hit on something that puzzled him.

"Dickey," he said.

There was no answer. The old man peering through the window seemed to have bent and whitened even since he came into the room.

"Look 'ere, Dickey," went on David, "this dashed fairy-tale won't hold water. _You_ know Coke. Is 'e the kind o' man to go bumpin' round like a stage 'ero, an' hoisting Union Jacks as the ship sinks? I ax you, is 'e? It's nonsense, stuff an' nonsense. An', if the Andromeeda was scrapped at Fernando Noronha, 'oo were the freebooters that collared the island, an' 'ow did this 'ere De Sylva get to Maceio? Are you listenin'?"

"Yes," said Bulmer, turning at last, and devouring Verity with his deep-set eyes.

"Well, wot d'ye think of it?"

"Did you send the ship to Fernando Noronha?"

It is needless to place on record the formula of David's denial. It was forcible, and served its purpose--that should suffice.

"Under ordinary conditions she would 'ave passed the island about the 31st?" continued Bulmer.

"Yes. Confound it, 'aven't I bin cablin' there every two days for a fortnight or more? B'lieve me or not, Dickey, it cut me to the 'eart to keep you in the dark about Iris. But I begun it, like an ijjit, an' kep' on with it."

"To sweeten me on account of the new ships, I s'pose?"

"Yes, that's it. No more lyin' for me. I'm sick of it."

"For the same reason you wanted that letter published?"

"Well--yes. There! You see I'm talkin' straight."

"So am I. If--if Iris is alive, the partnership goes on. If--she's dead, it doesn't."

"D'ye mean it?"

"I always mean wot I say."

The click of an indicator on the desk showed that Verity's private telephone had been switched on from the general office. By sheer force of routine, David picked up a receiver and placed it to his ear. The sub-editor of the newspaper whose representative had not been gone five minutes asked if he was speaking to Mr. Verity.

"Yes," said David, "wot's up now?" and he motioned to Bulmer to use a second receiver.

"A cablegram from Pernambuco states specifically that the captain and crew of the _Andromeda_ fought their way across the island of Fernando Noronha, rescued Dom De Sylva, seized a steam launch, attacked and captured the German steamship _Unser Fritz_, and landed the insurgent leader at Maceio. The message goes on to say that the captain's name is Coke, and that he is accompanied by his daughter. . . . Eh? What did you say? . . . Are you there?"

"Yes, I'm 'ere, or I think I am," said David with a desperate calmness. "Is that all?"

"All for the present."

"It doesn't say that Coke is a ravin', tearin', 'owlin' lunatic, does it?"

"No. Is that your view?"

Bulmer's hand gripped David's wrist. Their eyes met.

"I was thinkin' that the chap who writes these penny novelette wires might 'ave rounded up his yarn in good shape," said Verity aloud.

"But there is not the slightest doubt that something of the kind has occurred," said the voice.

"It's a put-up job!" roared David. "Them bloomin' Portygees 'ave sunk my ship, an' they're whackin' in their flam now so as to score first blow. A year-old baby 'ud see that if 'is father was a lawyer."

The sub-editor laughed.

"Well, I'll ring you up again when the next message comes through," he said.

But to Bulmer, David said savagely:

"Wot's bitten Coke? 'E must 'ave gone stark, starin' mad."

"Iris is alive!" murmured Bulmer.

"Nice mess she med of things w'en she slung 'er 'ook from Linden 'Ouse," grunted her uncle.

"I don't blame 'er. She meant no 'arm. She's on'y a bit of a lass, w'en all is said an' done. Mebbe it's my fault, or yours, or the fault of both of us. An' now, David, I'll tell you wot I 'ad in me mind in comin' 'ere this morning. You're hard up. You don't know where to turn for a penny. If you're agreeable, I'll put a trustworthy man in this office an' give 'im full powers to pull your affairs straight. Mind you, I'm doin' this for Iris, not for you. An' now that we know wot's 'appening in South America, you an' I will go out there and look into things. A mail steamer will take us there in sixteen days, an' before we sail we can work the cables a bit so as to stop Iris from startin' for 'ome before we arrive. The trip will do us good, an' we'll be away from the gossip of Bootle. Are you game? Well, gimme your 'and on it."