“What can be his game?” thought Carter, impressed by the powerful and wild aspect of that figure.  “He’s changed somehow since I saw him first,” he reflected.  It struck him the change was serious, not exactly for the worse, perhaps—­and yet. . . .  Lingard smiled at him from the poop.

Carter went up the steps and without pausing informed him of what had happened.

“Mrs. Travers told me to go to you at once.  She’s very upset as you may guess,” he drawled, looking Lingard hard in the face.  Lingard knitted his eyebrows.  “The hands, too, are scared,” Carter went on.  “They fancy the savages, or whatever they may be who stole the owner, are going to board the yacht every minute.  I don’t think so myself but—­”

“Quite right—­most unlikely,” muttered Lingard.

“Aye, I daresay you know all about it,” continued Carter, coolly, “the men are startled and no mistake, but I can’t blame them very much.  There isn’t enough even of carving knives aboard to go round.  One old signal gun!  A poor show for better men than they.”

“There’s no mistake I suppose about this affair?” asked Lingard.

“Well, unless the gentlemen are having a lark with us at hide and seek.  The man says he waited ten minutes at the point, then pulled slowly along the bank looking out, expecting to see them walking back.  He made the trunk of a tree apparently stranded on the sand and as he was sculling past he says a man jumped up from behind that log, flung a stick at him and went off running.  He backed water at once and began to shout, ‘Are you there, sir?’ No one answered.  He could hear the bushes rustle and some strange noises like whisperings.  It was very dark.  After calling out several times, and waiting on his oars, he got frightened and pulled back to the yacht.  That is clear enough.  The only doubt in my mind is if they are alive or not.  I didn’t let on to Mrs. Travers.  That’s a kind of thing you keep to yourself, of course.”

“I don’t think they are dead,” said Lingard, slowly, and as if thinking of something else.

“Oh!  If you say so it’s all right,” said Carter with deliberation.

“What?” asked Lingard, absently; “fling a stick, did they?  Fling a spear!”

“That’s it!” assented Carter, “but I didn’t say anything.  I only wondered if the same kind of stick hadn’t been flung at the owner, that’s all.  But I suppose you know your business best, Captain.”

Lingard, grasping his whole beard, reflected profoundly, erect and with bowed head in the glare of the flares.

“I suppose you think it’s my doing?” he asked, sharply, without looking up.