THE outlook of the day had materially changed with the tide. The wind had increased mightily, and the fine, fresh, early summer sky had changed to one of banking storm-clouds which drove down out of the northwest. It was a prospect of rough weather, for all there were still moments when the sun broke through the grey, and strove nobly to lighten the depressing outlook.

McLagan and his companions were standing on the slippery, weed-grown rocks. They were gazing speculatively up at the high sides of the wrecked vessel as she lay cradled upon the jagged belt of rocks which the ebb of the tide had laid bare. She was lifted high out of the water, for the flood tide had long since abandoned her. It had done the work it had striven to accomplish. It had flung its victim crashing upon the trap concealed within its merciless bosom. And now, in turn, satisfied, perhaps satiated, it had itself yielded to the greater forces of Nature. As the waters receded the vessel was left with her high, bluff nose stubbed deeply into the sharply shelving beach, which alone had saved her from complete destruction upon the granite walls of the cliffs beyond.

It was a sight for real pity. Even to the unskilled minds of these landsmen she was a fine, sturdy craft that deserved better of the elements. There she lay, slightly a-list, wounded and sorely stricken. Her forepeak was literally disembowelled and they could only guess at the damage the rest of her bottom had suffered. Her yards were groaning under a hectoring wind, and her torn sails were slashing and whipping viciously in response to its onslaught. Her plates seemed to be sprung in every direction, and she lay there utterly helpless, awaiting the inevitable and complete destruction that was yet to come.

McLagan had first approached the wreck on the height of the tide. His purpose had been the simple succour of those poor souls he had expected to find on board. The adventure had been full of risk, even under the consummate skill of the half-breed, who had done his best. But the terrible tide, and the increasing wind had defeated them, and, reluctantly enough, they had been driven to a perilous stand-off while they hailed the doomed vessel.

They had shouted. They shouted again and again, seeking to make their voices heard above the roar of the ocean rollers driving down upon the vessel’s side. But the effort had been unavailing. There was not a sign or sound of life about her, and their only response was the roar of the sea and the mocking cries of the sea-fowl whirling about her protesting rigging.

So in the end, they had been forced to yield. There was no alternative. They dared not approach nearer. Under the prevailing conditions their only hope of approaching the wreck was to await the fall of the tide and make the shore upon which it was piled.

But even so, their attempt had not been wholly fruitless. They had discovered many things of deep interest. They had discovered the vessel’s name, which was set out plainly on her bluff stern. She was the Limpet, and her port of registration was the city of Boston. Furthermore, they realised that though her rudder post remained in place the rudder itself was gone. Then they understood that she had the shape and qualities of a coasting vessel of more than usual deep-seagoing type. She was built for heavy weather as well as the lighter work of her coasting trade, and they beheld, too, a wireless aerial was still in its place between her main and mizzen masts.

But in McLagan’s mind the greatest significance lay in the fact that she was still laden with a deck cargo of lumber, and all her top gear was intact, and all her sails were set, and the only signs of her distress were the inroads which the wind had made upon her canvas suiting. From the distance, when she had first been discovered, she had looked to be riding proudly, gallantly to her death under full sail. But at close quarters it was clearly evident that this had been something of an illusion. Her sails were full set, it was true, but there were many sad rents that were widening every moment, and, in many places, their clews were straining upon a last desperate hold.

Now, with the tide at its lowest ebb, standing beside her on the rocks these men were less concerned for her superstructure than for the evidence the rocks had imposed upon her. Peter Loby was staring in simple wonder at the yawning gash torn out of her bows. Sasa Mannik, in true “wrecker” fashion, was contemplating her from the point of view of his own advantage. He was a sailorman, and here were gear, ropes and canvas and possibly all the needs of his heart, for the simple process of collecting them. He had no concern for anything else. But Ivor McLagan gazed upon her wrecked bows while his mind was preoccupied by the mystery of her presence in the remote inlet where he had set up his home.

He was convinced now that she was without life on board, but the condition of her fully set sails also convinced him that her abandonment had taken place in fair weather, perhaps, even, in a dead calm. He was left quite unimpressed by her rudderless condition. He argued that this disaster must have occurred after her abandonment. For even to him it seemed impossible that any responsible shipmaster could have set full sail on a vessel without steering gear. Then, except for the almost paintless condition of her rusted hull, there was no other sign of distress about her. Her deck cargo was aboard, and her boats, as far as he had been able to judge, were snugged as though there had never been a thought of the necessity for launching them.

No, it was a curious, even mysterious visitation. He understood, he had often enough heard of a lee-shore and its dangers to a sailing vessel. Clearly something of the sort must have happened. But not in association with this vessel’s abandonment.

He turned abruptly to his subordinate and pointed at the mass of rusted cable strewn about the rocks fallen through the rent in the vessel’s side like the litter of some wounded monster’s bowels.

“That looks to me the easy way aboard,” he said sharply. “I don’t figger to know a deal when it comes to sea-craft. But it likely seems the hole that belched up that junk ought to be a way up to her decks.”

Peter nodded. He glanced up over the sprung plates of her sides.

“It surely looks that way,” he agreed. “Maybe—Holy gee! Here! Get a look up there! Look at ’em!” he cried excitedly, pointing up at the vessel’s rail. “Ther’s scores! Ther’s regiments of ’em! Get a look at those darn rats!”

All three men were staring up at a sight rarely enough to be seen. Peter’s excited estimate was by no means exaggerated. Just above the vessel’s rail was an upstanding pile of lumber, and it was literally swarming with rats of all sizes, from the full-grown, long-whiskered, grey patriarchs down to the extreme youth of the colony. They were running hither and thither without apparent aim or object till it seemed they must be participating in some sort of curious rodent gambol or driven by senseless panic.

It was sufficiently repulsive to gaze upon. There was something utterly repellent in it. For some reason it is against human nature to view these pests without deeply stirred feelings. And for all the hardiness of these men the effect upon them now was wholly one of loathing.

The scene only occupied a minute or so. Then, of a sudden, one rat, bigger, it seemed, than all the rest, suddenly made its appearance. He came to the rail of the vessel. He seemed to be contemplating it closely, or perhaps he was contemplating the men standing below him on the rocks. Then, at last, apparently satisfied with his survey, he set off along the rail on the run. In a moment the rest were following behind. They ran close together in single file, head to tail, till they looked like a long, thick, moving, grey rope. At a given point, the leader turned off back on to the deck, and the swarming creatures pursued him.

With the passing from view of the hindmost, McLagan spat and shrugged his shoulders.

“Quitting,” he said. Then he laughed. “It’s the way of things. She’s doomed. So—the rats are quitting. Guess it makes me sick in the stomach. I’ll hail you boys if I get through this way.”

He moved over to the great hole in the vessel’s side and, stooping, peered within the dark cavity. He stood there for a moment. Then Peter saw him move forward and the hole swallowed him up.

For all the extent of the rent in the vessel’s side the forepeak was dark and low and dank with the stench of bilge and rust. McLagan was forced to move cautiously over the piles of rusted cable, for he was utterly unfamiliar with his surroundings. But soon his keen eyes grew accustomed to the twilight and he was able to measure with some accuracy the place in which he found himself. A steel bulkhead shut him off from the rest of the vessel’s hold, and the walls of the place sloped inwards till their point of meeting was lost beneath the tangle of chains at his feet. Right in the centre he discovered a fixed iron companion ladder standing sheerly erect. And examination showed him that it mounted up through manholes to the top deck, where a small, gaping hatchway revealed full daylight.

In a moment he was swarming towards the light above.

The three men were standing in the narrow limits of the ship’s cabin. It was small and unpretentious enough, but not without some refinement of decoration. The deck of the ship’s poop roofed the room, and, as is usual in such cases, the ceiling it made to the cabin was picked out in panels which were outlined in somewhat striking but sufficiently harmonious colours. It was the same with the walls, and the doors which opened out of the apartment. The fixed chairs against the centre table were of the usual ship’s mahogany, and the upholstery was well-worn leather. There was no other furnishing to the place except strips of somewhat decayed carpeting pinned securely to the deck.

But there was that set out on the table which held both the white men deeply preoccupied with its significance. It was a meal obviously arranged for only one man. And it was only half consumed. There was no confusion, no litter, no sign of hasty abandonment, except that the meal appeared to have been broken off in the middle of it.

The table was partly covered with a white cloth that had seen better and cleaner days. There was a dish containing some sort of hash that had become dried up. In front of what was obviously the captain’s seat at the head of the table, and which faced the alleyway entrance to the apartment, was a plate containing the remains of a portion of the hash. This, too, was dried up and shrivelled, and beside it lay a knife and fork which were both smeared as with use in consuming the food. Besides these, again, were the gnawed remains of some broken bread, and a drink that was clearly whisky and water.

Further along the table stood a dingy cruet. And beyond this again was an uncut fruit pie. The crust of this was almost gone, and that which remained was sour-looking and mildewed. This, too, had been obviously consumed by rats. And it was the same with the contents of a bread basket which stood beside it. Even the table-cloth itself had failed to escape the insatiable depredations of the rodents. But the signs were unmistakable. The meal had been interrupted. The man who had been devouring it had clearly been suddenly inspired to abandon it, and for some unguessed reason he had clearly failed to return.

McLagan raised a hand and pushed his cap back from his forehead. It was a gesture of perplexity.

“It looks tough,” he said slowly. “It looks like that feller didn’t take time to eat right for the darn hurry he was in. He was a plain liver, too, I’d say. But he surely was in an almighty hurry.”

Peter Loby nodded. Imagination in him was working hard, but the result was negative. He glanced up from the table and his eyes surveyed the walls with the doors which opened out into what were clearly the officer’s sleeping quarters. There were only three doors besides the entrance from the alleyway.

“It’s the kind of thing to leave you guessing,” he admitted. “We’ve looked right into it all from the fo’castle head to this cabin. But ther’s still those state-rooms yet. Maybe one of ’em’ll hand us the ship’s papers and the log. That ought to tell us the story of it. It’s most certainly queer.”

“Queer?” McLagan laughed shortly. He shook his head. “That don’t say a thing. Think back, man. What have we found so far? From the carpenter’s shop under the fo’castle head to the men’s quarters and the galley, and this, we’ve found just the thing you’d expect to find in a full-crewed, well-found ship—except the ship’s company itself.” He shrugged. “There were chips and wood lying around in the tool shop—and tools—just as if the boy who worked there had only just quit his job. The men’s quarters in the fo’castle looked to be in the sort of order you’d find in a ship about to set out for sea, an’ before she’s taken on her crew. As for the galley, you could start right in to fix food there now and not be worried a thing, except for being short on pots an’ things. Look at the lumber stacked on the deck. It’s there ready for a sea-trip without a stick or lashing out of place, and I’d say the hold cargo’s likely the same. And as for the boats——” He paused and gazed thoughtfully about him, and his eyes came to rest again on the rat-gnawed food on the table, which held him fascinated. “That’s the queerest thing of it all. This craft was built with four boats and they’re all in place snugged down, and I’d say they’ve never been unshipped except for a coat of paint. Here’s a darn craft been sailing loose for maybe weeks or months without a soul on board we can locate, not even with the rats belonging her—now. And there’s not a sign of how or why the folks belonging her quit.”

He turned and flung himself into the chair that had obviously been that usually occupied by the captain of the vessel. He seemed to be completely at a loss. Peter moved over to one of the doors, and peered into the apartment beyond. Sasa displayed no curiosity. His dark eyes were unusually wide, and a curious brooding light left them almost expressionless. He stood staring down at the littered table, and after a few prolonged moments of silence, McLagan stirred irritably in his chair.

“Get around in those three state-rooms, or whatever they are, Peter, an’ take the darn breed with you,” he cried. “Poke around and smell out. Sasa’ll be more use that way than gawking like some darn mutt around here. If you find a thing, shout me. I’m stopping around to worry this thing out right here.”

McLagan was rarely enough given to irritation. But oppressive irritation was driving him now. He remained where he was until his lieutenant and the half-breed had passed into the first of the three compartments. Then, as the door swung to behind them, he started up and passed swiftly from the room. Moving down the alleyway, beyond the steward’s pantry, he came to the break of the poop and out into the daylight.

Here he paused. It was good to be out in the air again, and a sense of relief came to him as he surveyed the scene. The main deck here was clear of cargo. It was clean, almost as clean as if it had only just endured the attentions of the sand and canvas so beloved of the seaman. Rope-ends, that should have been neatly cleated, or coiled away, were littered where the weather had flung them, but it was the only sign of any confusion.

He breathed his relief as he leant against the doorway and surveyed it all with contemplative eyes. The wind was screaming through the rigging and the torn sails were booming out their protests. The sky was darkening with a real threat of storm, and beyond the high prow of the wreck the grey walls of the bay rose up gaunt and forbidding.

The whole thing had gotten hold of McLagan in a curiously depressing fashion. He felt that somehow there was an unusual story lying behind the circumstances of this fair-weather wreck. And his practical mind was searching every avenue that opened up to its vision.

Mutiny? His mind naturally turned to mutiny, but he dismissed the thought immediately. There was not a sign of mutiny from the ship’s bows to her stern-post. There was not a sign of force or struggle, and her boats were in place. Storm? He shook his head. No storm had broken the heart of her crew. What else was there to cause her abandonment? Nothing. No. Look which way he would, there was no reasonable solution in the vessel’s condition. There had been a purely voluntary exodus, orderly, quiet, even if hasty. Of that he was convinced. There was no other conclusion to come to. No. Whatever there still remained to be discovered in her holds, and in those cabins behind him, there was nothing much else for him to do but to drive into Beacon on the work he had in hand, and carry in with him the report of this wreck to Alan Goodchurch, who represented the United States Government for the district. That would have to be done. But meanwhile——

A curious look crept suddenly into his narrow eyes. He was looking out straight before him down the deck. Immediately in his focus were the securely battened main hatch and the galley and the fo’castle. There were the iron-shod steps of the companion-ladder up to the roof of these, and, to the right of that stood a tarpaulin-covered winch, with behind it the donkey-engine room. His gaze was riveted on the deckway that passed beyond this and which was stacked high with great baulks of lumber.

But it was not these things which had inspired the curious, questioning, incredulous look with which he gazed upon them. It was something else. Something which startled him, and made him turn quickly to the stormy sky, which, at that moment, had broken to permit a pallid beam of sunshine to make its way through. It was only for a moment he looked up, however. Then again he became absorbed in the deck ahead of him.

Suddenly he stood erect. He had abandoned his lounging. The doubt in his eyes had given place to something else which baffled description. He drew a deep breath, while a chilly sensation passed through his great body and left him with a feeling of curious helplessness.

He remained unmoving. His fascinated gaze was still held. Not for a moment did it shift. It almost seemed as if it were impossible for him to look away. Then the grey of the storm-clouds closed up again and the sunbeam faded out. And as it did so he raised a hand slowly, almost involuntarily, and passed it hesitatingly across his forehead.

With that movement mobility returned to him. He turned and glanced back into the alleyway. The next moment the sharp tones of his voice rang out.

“Anything doing, boy?” he called, harshly. And he followed up his question by hastily passing back into the cabin.

The search was over. McLagan and Peter Loby were standing at the break of the poop-deck. Sasa Mannik had separated from the others and was squatting hunched upon the main hatch. He was watching the white men, contemplating them with narrowed eyes while his shrewd native mind was following a train of thought which deeply preoccupied him.

“I’m not a thing wiser,” Peter said in reply to a question. “There wasn’t a scrap of paper, or a bunch of human clothes. But I wouldn’t rely on that too much. You see, I hurried, an’ when you’re looking that way you’re liable to miss things. Ther’s one of those rooms for wireless. The other two were bunks. One with one bunk and the other with two. Both had bed fixings and they looked so they hadn’t been slept in. It gets me beat. The lockers were plumb empty, just as though they’d been cleared out to leave no trace. It’s the queerest——”

He broke off. Sasa’s harsh voice had broken in on him. He had risen from his place on the hatch, and his eyes had widened out of their usual narrowing.

“I go,” he said, sharply. “This bad ship—no good. Bimeby I not come back ever.”

He turned and glanced almost fearfully about him.

“Why, Sasa? You don’t like it? Why?”

McLagan’s questions came sharply and on the instant. There was a half smile in his eyes. But there was nothing smiling behind them.

Sasa spat viciously on the deck.

“Bad spirit plenty,” he said with native panic in his widened eyes. “I go.”

And without waiting for reply, or, perhaps, because he feared lest he should be detained, he passed quickly across to the vessel’s rail where a heavy downhaul was sprawled on the deck. He flung it over the side. And in a moment he had followed it, and was swarming down to the rocks below.

“This thing’s got on his nerves,” Peter laughed.

McLagan nodded. But there was no responsive laughter.

“And I don’t somehow wonder,” he said. Then he shrugged. “I guess we can’t do any good here now. I’ll get along back, and pass right on into Beacon. I’ll need to make a report to Goodchurch on this. I surely will.”