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we approached he was talking earnestly, oblivious to everything else. I could not blame him. Winifred was a slender, vivacious girl, whose grey-blue eyes caught and held yours even while you admired her well-rounded cheeks, innocent of make-up. Her high forehead denoted an intellect which the feminine masses of puffy light-brown hair made all the more charming. One felt her personality in every action. She was not afraid of sun and air. A pile of the more serious magazines near her indicated that she was quite as much alive to the great movements that are stirring the world today as she was to the outdoor life that glowed in her face. It was easy to see that Shelby Maddox was having a new experience.

      ‘Good morning,’ greeted Hastings.

      Winifred smiled, but Shelby was plainly annoyed at the intrusion of the lawyer. I could not make out whether there was an aversion to Hastings behind the annoyance or not.

      The introductions over, we sat down for a moment. Hastings had been careful not to say that Kennedy was a detective, but to hint that he was a friend and, by implication, a lawyer.

      ‘It must have been a severe shock when you heard what had happened,’ he began, speaking to Winifred.

      ‘It was, indeed,’ she replied gravely. ‘You see, I stayed here at the Harbour House while my brother and sister-in-law were on the yacht. Johnson came off early because he had to go to the city, and telephoned up to the room that they were going to be late and Frances would stay out on the yacht. Then when I came down this morning they were just bringing the body ashore.’

      She shuddered at the recollection and Shelby flashed a look at Kennedy as though he could knife him for bringing up the distasteful subject. It seemed as though Shelby Maddox was pretty unconcerned about his brother’s death.

      ‘Strange that you heard nothing on the yacht,’ switched Kennedy, looking full at Shelby.

      ‘We didn’t,’ returned the young man, but in a tone that showed his attention was somewhere else.

      I followed the direction of his eyes.

      A petite, frilly, voluptuous figure stood in the doorway. She had an almost orchid beauty that more than suggested the parasite. Of a type quite the opposite of Winifred, she had nevertheless something interesting about her. For the born adventuress is always a baffling study.

      Even before Hastings whispered I knew it must be Paquita.

      She passed across the porch toward a flight of steps that led down to the shore, and as she did so nodded to Shelby with a smile, at the same time casting a look at Winifred such as only one woman can when she is taking in another at a glance. Winifred was first of all a woman. Her face flushed almost imperceptibly, but her own glance of estimation never faltered. I felt that there was a silent clash. Winifred was the antithesis of Paquita.

      Shelby failed even with his cigarette to cover up his confusion. But as I searched his face I thought I saw one thing at least. Whatever might or might not have been the truth in Hastings’s story of Shelby’s acquaintance with Paquita once, it was evident now that Winifred Walcott quite filled his eye.

      As she paused before going down the steps Paquita darted back one more look at Shelby. Had he once felt the lure? At least now he made no move. And Paquita was insanely jealous.

      ‘I should like to have Mr Kennedy look over the Sybarite, especially the room which I sealed,’ suggested Hastings in a tone which was not peremptory, but nevertheless was final.

      Shelby looked from Hastings to Winifred. The passing of Paquita seemed to have thrown a cloud over the sunshine which had brightened the moments before. He was torn between two emotions. There was no denying the request of Hastings. Yet this was no time to leave Winifred suspicious.

      ‘I think you had better go,’ she said finally, as Shelby hesitated.

      ‘Would you not be one of the party?’ he asked eagerly.

      ‘I don’t think I could stand it,’ she replied hastily.

      It was perfectly natural. Yet I could see that it left Shelby uncertain of her real reason.

      Reluctantly he said goodbye and we four made our way down the dock to the float where was moored a fast tender of the yacht. We climbed aboard, and the man in charge started the humming, many-cylindered engine. We darted off in a cloud of spray.

      Once I saw Kennedy looking back, and I looked back also. In the far corner of the Casino stood the sallow-faced man, watching us intently. Who and what could he be?

      Westport Bay is one of those fjords, as they almost might be called, which run in among the beautifully wooded hills of the north shore of Long Island.

      The Sybarite was lying at anchor a mile or so off-shore. As we approached her we saw that she was a 150-foot, long, low-lying craft of the new type, fitted with gas engines, and built quite as much for comfort as for speed. She was an elaborately built craft, with all the latest conveniences, having a main saloon, dining-room, library, and many state-rooms, all artistically decorated. In fact, it must have cost a small fortune merely to run the yacht.

      As we boarded it Shelby led the way to the sheltered deck aft, and we sat down for a moment to become acquainted,

      ‘Mito,’ he called to a Japanese servant, ‘take the gentlemen’s hats. And bring us cigars.’

      The servant obeyed silently. Evidently Shelby spared nothing that made for comfort.

      ‘First of all,’ began Craig, ‘I want to see the state-room where Marshall Maddox slept.’

      Shelby arose, apparently willingly enough, and led the way to the lower berth deck. Hastings carefully examined the seal which he had left on the door and, finding it intact, broke it and unlocked the door for us.

      It was a bedroom rather than a state-room. The walls were panelled in wood and the port-hole was finished inside to look like a window. It was toward this port-hole that Kennedy first directed his attention, opening it and peering out at the water below.

      ‘Quite large enough for a man to get through—or throw a body through,’ he commented, turning to me.

      I looked out also. ‘It’s a long way to the water,’ I remarked, thinking perhaps he meant that a boat might have nosed up alongside and someone have entered that way.

      ‘Still, if one had a good-sized cruiser, one might reach it by standing on the roof of the cabin,’ he observed. ‘At any rate, there’d be difficulty in disposing of a body that way.’

      He turned. The wind had swung the yacht around so that the sun streamed in through the open port. Kennedy bent down and picked up some little bright slivers of thin metal that lay scattered here and there on the carpet.

      He looked about at the furniture, then bent down and examined the side of the bedstead. It seemed to be pitted with little marks. He rose, and as he did so his gaze fell on one of the brass fittings of the cabin. It seemed to have turned green, almost to be corroded. With his penknife he scraped off some of the corrosion and placed it on a piece of paper, which he folded up.

      The examination of the state-room completed, Shelby took us about the boat. First of all, he showed us the handsomely furnished main saloon opening into a little library, almost as if it were an apartment.

      ‘It was here,’ he volunteered, ‘that we held the conference last night.’

      For the first time I became aware, although Kennedy had noticed it before, that when we boarded the Sybarite Mito had been about. He had passed twice down the hall while we were in the state-room occupied by Marshall Maddox. He was now busy in the library, but on our entrance had withdrawn deferentially, as though not wishing to intrude.

      Henceforth I watched the Japanese keenly as he padded about the boat. Everywhere we went I fancied that he turned up. He seemed ubiquitous. Was it that he was solicitous of the wants of his master? Had he received instructions from him? Did the slant-eyed Oriental have something hidden behind that inscrutable face of his?

      There did not seem to be

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