Course, that’s his specialty, workin’ up suspicions.  He’s been at it right along, ever since the Agnes was tied loose from her pier, and outside of Auntie and Mr. Ellins, who are backin’ this treasure hunt, I don’t think there’s a single party aboard that he hasn’t given the sleuthy once-over to.

I understand he was dead set against takin’ any outsiders along from the first, even protestin’ against Mrs. Mumford and old Professor Leonidas Barr.  I expect his merry little idea is that they might get their heads together, steal the map showin’ where all that pirate gold is buried, murder the rest of us, and dig up the loot themselves.  Something like that.

Anyway, Rupert is always snoopin’ around, bobbin’ out unexpected and pussy-footin’ up behind you when you’re talkin’ to anyone.  I didn’t notice his antics the first day or so, but after that he sort of got on my nerves—­specially after the weather quit actin’ up and it come off warmer.  Then folks got thicker on the rear deck.  Mrs. Mumford with her crochet, Auntie with her correspondence pad, the Professor with his books, and so on, which was why me and Vee took to huntin’ for little nooks where we could have private chats.  You know how it is.

There was one place ’way up in the bow, between the big anchors, and another on the little boat deck, right back of the bridge.  But, just as we’d get nicely settled, we’d hear a creak-creak, and here would come Rupert nosing around.

“Lookin’ for anybody special?” I’d ask him.

“Why—­er—­no,” says Rupert.

“Then you’ll find ’em in the main saloon,” says I, “two flights down.  Mind your step.”

But you couldn’t discourage Captain Killam that way.  Next time it would be the same old story.

“Of all the gutta-percha ears!” says I to Vee.  “He must think we’re plottin’ something deep.”

“Let’s pretend we are,” says Vee.

“Or give him a steer that’ll keep him busy, eh?” says I.

So you see it started innocent enough.  I worked out the details durin’ the night, and next mornin’ my first move is to make the plant.  First I hunts up Old Hickory’s particular friend, J. Dudley Simms, him with the starey eyes and the twisted smile.  For some reason or other, Rupert hadn’t bothered him much.  Too simple in the face, I expect.

But Dudley ain’t half so simple as he looks or listens.  In his own particular way he seems to be enjoyin’ this yachtin’ trip huge, just loafin’ around elegant in his white flannels, smokin’ cigarettes continual, soppin’ up brandy-and-soda at reg’lar intervals, and entertainin’ Mr. Ellins with his batty remarks.

The only thing that appears to bother Dudley at all about bein’ cut off this way from the world in general is the lack of a stock ticker aboard.  Seems he’d loaded up with a certain war baby before sailing and while the deal wouldn’t either make or break him, he had a sportin’ interest in which way the market was waverin’.