“Well, how do you guess Consolidated Munitions closed yesterday?” I asks.

Dudley shakes his head mournful.

“I dreamed last night of seeing a flock of doves,” says he.  “That’s a bad sign.  I’d give a dollar for a glimpse at a morning paper.”

“They say Charleston’s only a couple hundred miles off there,” says I.  “If it wasn’t so soggy walkin’ I’d run in and get you one.”

“No,” says he; “you’d be late for breakfast.  I wonder if our wireless man couldn’t get in touch with some of the shore stations.”

“Sure he could,” says I, “but don’t let on what stock you’re plungin’ on.  His name’s Meyers.  He’s a hyphen, you know.  And if he got wise to your havin’ war-baby shares he’d likely hold out on you.  But you might jolly him into gettin’ a general quotation list.  I’d stick around this forenoon if I was you.”

“By Jove!” says J. Dudley.  “I will.”

And maybe you know how welcome any new way of killin’ time can be when you’re out on a boat with nothin’ doin’ but three or four calls to grub a day.  Dudley goes it strong.  He plants himself in a chair just outside the wireless man’s little coop, and begins feedin’ Meyers monogrammed cigarettes and frivolous anecdotes of his past life.

Havin’ the scene set like that made it easy.  All I has to do is sketch out the plot to Vee and wait for Rupert to come gum-shoein’ around.

“Just follow my lead, that’s all,” says I, as we fixes some seat cushions in the shade of one of the lifeboats on the upper deck.  “And when you spot him—­”

“He’s coming up now,” whispers Vee.

“Then here goes for improvisin’ a mystery,” says I.  “Is he near enough?”

Vee glances over her shoulder.

“Go on,” says she.  Then, a bit louder:  “Tell—­tell me the worst, Torchy.”

“I ain’t sure yet,” says I, “but take it from me there’s something bein’ hatched on this yacht besides cold-storage eggs.”

“Hatched?” says Vee.

“S-s-s-sh!” says I.  “Underhanded work; mutiny, maybe.”

“O-o-o-oh!” says Vee, givin’ a little squeal.  “Who could do anything like that?”

“I’m not saying,” says I; “but there’s a certain party who ain’t just what he seems.  You’d never guess, either.  But just keep your eye on J. Dudley.”

“Wh-a-at!” gasps Vee.  “Mr. Simms?”

“Uh-huh,” says I.  “Listen.  He knows about Nunca Secos Key, don’t he?  And about the gold and jewels there?”

“That’s so,” says Vee.  “But so do all of us.  Only we don’t know just where the island is.”

“Suppose Dudley had buffaloed Old Hickory into showin’ him the map?”

“Well?” demands Vee.

“Wouldn’t it be easy enough,” I goes on, “if he had pals ashore, to pass on the description, have them start out in a fast yacht from New Orleans or Key West, and beat us to it?”

“But I don’t see,” says Vee, “how he could get word to them.”