A Bid for Fortune - Guy Boothby (ready player one ebook TXT) 📗

with a chuckle. “There is the counterfeit of £50,000 there; for the rest I propose to show them these.”

So saying, he dived his hand into a drawer and produced a sheaf of crisp banknotes.

“There⁠—these are notes for the balance of the amount.”

“But you surely are not going to pay? I thought we were going to try to catch the rascals without letting any money change hands.”

“So we are; do not be afraid. If you will only glance at these notes you will see that they are dummies, every one of them. They are for me to exhibit to the man in the boat; in the dark they’ll pass muster, never fear.”

“Very good indeed,” I said with a laugh. “By the time they can be properly examined we shall have the police at hand ready to capture him.”

“I believe we shall,” the old gentleman cried, rubbing his hands together in his delight⁠—“I believe we shall. And a nice example we’ll make of the rascals. Nikola thinks he can beat me, I’ll show him how mistaken he is!”

And for some time the old gentleman continued in this strain, confidently believing that he would have his daughter with him again by the time morning came. Nor was I far behind him in confidence. Since Nikola had not spirited her out of the country my plot seemed the one of all others to enable us to regain possession of her, and not only that, but we hoped it would give us an opportunity of punishing those who had so schemed against her. Suddenly an idea was born in my brain, and instantly I acted on it.

“Mr. Wetherell,” I said, “supposing, when your daughter is safe with you again, I presume so far as once more to offer myself for your son-in-law, what will you say?”

“What will I say?” he cried. “Why, I will tell you that you shall have her, my boy, with ten thousand blessings on your head. I know you now; and since I’ve treated you so badly, and you’ve taken such a noble revenge, why, I’ll make it up to you, or my name’s not Wetherell. But we won’t talk any more about that till we have got possession of her; we have other and more important things to think of. What time ought we to start tonight?”

“The letter fixes the meeting for ten o’clock; we had better be in the boat by half-past nine. In the meantime I should advise you to take a little rest. By the way, do you think your footman realizes that you have the money?”

“He ought to, for he carried it up to this room for me; and, what’s more, he has applied for a holiday this afternoon.”

“That’s to carry the information. Very good; everything is working excellently. Now I’m off to rest for a little while.”

“I’ll follow your example. In the meantime I’ll give orders for an early dinner.”

We dined at seven o’clock sharp, and at half-past eight I went off to my room to don my disguise; then, bidding the Marquis goodbye⁠—much to the young gentleman’s disgust, for he was most anxious to accompany us⁠—I slipped quietly out of my window, crossed the garden⁠—I hoped unobserved⁠—and then went down to the harbour side, where the boat I had chartered was waiting for me. A quarter of an hour later Wetherell’s carriage drove up, and on seeing it I went across and opened the door. My disguise was so perfect that for a moment the old gentleman seemed undecided whether to trust me or not. But my voice, when I spoke, reassured him, and then we set to work carrying the bags of spurious money down to the boat. As soon as this was accomplished we stepped in. I seated myself amidships and got out the oars, Mr. Wetherell taking the yoke-lines in the stern. Then we shoved off, and made our way out into the harbour.

It was a dull, cloudy night, with hardly a sign of a star in the whole length and breadth of heaven, while every few minutes a cold, cheerless wind swept across the water. So chilly indeed was it that before we had gone very far I began to wish I had added an overcoat to my other disguises. We hardly spoke, but pulled slowly down towards the island mentioned in the letter. The strain on our nerves was intense and I must confess to feeling decidedly nervous as I wondered what would happen if the police boat did not pull up to meet us, as we had that morning arranged.

A quarter to ten chimed from some church ashore as we approached within a hundred yards of our destination. Then I rested on my oars and waited. All round us were the lights of bigger craft, but no rowing-boat could I see. About five minutes before the hour I whispered to Wetherell to make ready, and in answer the old gentleman took a matchbox from his pocket. Exactly as the town clocks struck the hour he lit a vesta; it flared a little and then went out. As it did so a boat shot out of the darkness to port. He struck a second, and then a third. As the last one burned up and then died away, the man rowing the boat I have just referred to struck a light, then another, then another, in rapid succession. Having finished his display, he took up his oars and propelled his boat towards us. When he was within talking distance he said in a gruff voice:

“Is Mr. Wetherell aboard?”

To this my companion immediately answered, not however without a tremble in his voice, “Yes, here I am!”

“Money all right?”

“Can you see if I hold it up?” asked Mr. Wetherell. As he spoke a long black boat came into view on the other side of our questioner, and pulled slowly towards him. It was the police boat.

“No, I don’t want to see,” said the voice again. “But this is the message I was to give you.