When Marston woke in the morning his headache and languidness had gone. It looked as if the powder the mulatto had left had cured him, and although he did not find the laudanum and packet of drugs, he resolved he would not bother about their loss. In a day or two, small lots of rather valuable cargo began to arrive and one afternoon Marston and Wyndham lounged under the awning and watched the Krooboys transfer goods from a big canoe to the yacht. Four or five negroes from up river put the fiber packages in the hoisting slings.

The men worked slackly, for although the sun was hidden the heat was extreme. A yellow haze covered the sky, but the oily surface of the lagoon shimmered with subdued light. On the other side, the reflection of the mangroves floated motionless, without a leaf quivering. Dark shadow lurked in the caves under the high roots, and here and there the massed foliage was touched by dirty white. Marston thought the trees looked as if they were blighted by some foul disease. He hated the mangroves and the smell of mud that hung about the vessel.

"The tides are beginning to get higher," he said. "It will be a relief to leave this dismal spot and go to sea."

"Calling here has paid us," Wyndham rejoined. "We are getting stuff for which dyers and chemists give high prices; stuff I wanted but hardly expected to obtain. In fact, I'll own your mysterious visitor has earned his dash. No doubt he'll turn up again and ask for it."

"D'you reckon he had much to do with our getting the goods?"

Wyndham shrugged. "I understand he promised you the articles you talked about, and they have arrived. If he comes again, I'd like to see him. Perhaps he could be persuaded to send us something else."

"He asked for you," said Marston, and wondered whether his remark was rash when he saw Wyndham was pondering. Although Bob felt he was perhaps illogical, he did not want Harry to persuade the fellow.

"I think you said his eyes were blue," Wyndham resumed presently. "Well, one does meet a mulatto with blue eyes now and then, and it's perhaps not important that the bottom of his feet was white – "

Wyndham stopped, for a splash of paddles broke the silence, and when a canoe stole out of the shadow across the lagoon Marston said. "We may learn something about him now. Here's your agent, Don Felix."

He thought Wyndham was going to reply, but he hesitated and then crossed the deck as the agent and another man came on board. Marston called the steward, who put a small table under the awning and brought out a bottle of choice liquor they had bought at the last port. The party sat down and Marston studied his guests. On the whole, he liked Don Felix and thought him honest. The fellow's greasy fat face was frank and his black eyes met one's glance squarely. For all that, he thought he did not look well; there was a hint of strain about him and his hand shook when he greedily drained his glass. The climate, however, was unhealthy, and Marston turned to their other guest.

Father Sebastian was white, although his skin was dark and wrinkled. He was very thin and his threadbare clothes were slack; his hair was white and his eyes were sunk. He looked about with a frank curiosity and Marston imagined it was long since he had been on board a ship and had met civilized white men.

By and by Don Felix began to talk about the cargo and declared that he was puzzled, because he had not received so large a quantity of valuable goods for some time.

"It looks as if the people in the bush were working," he remarked and added dryly: "They work when they are forced."

Marston told him about the mulatto's visit, and Don Felix's face got dark. He drained his glass and turning to Father Sebastian repeated Marston's story in awkward French.

"I do not like it," he said, "This foul Bat! I think he is plotting again."

Father Sebastian made a sign of agreement and addressed Marston, whose curiosity was obvious. He spoke slowly, as if it cost him an effort to remember words, but Marston thought his French was good.

"An evil man! He is called the Bat because he likes the dark. Moreover they talk about bats that drink human blood."

"If there are such creatures, why don't you kill them?" Marston asked and glanced at Wyndham. He was smoking a cigarette and looked rather bored, but Marston knew his friend and doubted.

"The Bat is hard to kill. Some have tried, but perhaps I may be luckier," Don Felix answered, and his fat, nervous fingers touched his Spanish knife. Then he shrugged. "All the same, it is possible he kills me!"

The others said nothing. Don Felix was rather theatrical, but Marston thought him strongly moved by anger or fear. By and by Don Felix went to the hatch and examined one or two of the packages the Krooboys were putting in the hold.

"What is this?" he asked. "These packages have a mark I know but I did not buy the goods."

"The shipper will, no doubt, come to you for payment and we'll engage to meet the bill," Wyndham replied. "The stuff is getting very scarce and ought to sell for a good price."

"No!" exclaimed Don Felix angrily. "I buy nothing with that mark! You must stop the boys loading the lot. Send it all back."

"Isn't this ridiculous?" Wyndham asked. "Why do you want us to refuse the goods?"

Don Felix sat down and gripped the arm of his chair hard. "The man whose mark that is is a friend of the Bat's," he said, and his voice got hoarse. "I do not know if the goods are his or the other's, but I will not buy the stuff. Bad luck would go with the money one earned by handling it."

He said something to Father Sebastian in rapid creole French and the priest turned to Wyndham.

"It is better that you send back this cargo," he remarked quietly. "Don Felix is an honest man. He has given you advice that may cost him much." Marston pondered, with his eyes on his guest. Father Sebastian was old and shabby; he had obviously lived long with his savage flock, but he was white. His glance was calm and thoughtful and he had a touch of dignity. Marston thought he knew much about human nature and could be trusted. Don Felix, however, got up and clenched his fist. It looked as if the company of the priest and the others had given him some resolve.

"What do I care about the cost?" he exclaimed in French. "I was afraid and I paid. Me, a good Catholic, I paid that these pigs might serve their devil! But it has gone on long, and now I stop. This dirty Bat will come between me and my employer; he leaves me out. Well, let it be so!" He paused and spread out his hand with a theatrical gesture that Marston thought was meant for the negroes in the canoe. "Now I fight. My trade is my blood. I will kill this Bat!"

Father Sebastian shook his head, but Don Felix turned to Wyndham and resumed in a defiant voice. "You will send back the packages? If not, you must get another agent."

"Very well," agreed Wyndham. "You can tell the boys to unload the goods you don't like."

He gave Don Felix a quick glance and Marston wondered whether he expected him to hesitate, but the mulatto went back to the hatch and gave his orders resolutely. Marston remembered that another lot of fiber packages had been stowed at the bottom of the hold before the agent arrived and were now probably out of sight. Wyndham however, said nothing about these and filled Father Sebastian's glass.

"Our friend is superstitious," he remarked. "You know something about Obeah, and Voodoo magic. I expect the men who teach the cult use cunning tricks. But how much is trickery?"

"Ah," said Father Sebastian, "Who can tell? There are powers that rule the dark. You know it is permitted when you have lived in the gloom. Perhaps Don Felix is superstitious, but he takes a hard path. It is the right path; I think he is brave." Then he paused and smiled. "I am old and have lived in this country long. There is much about Voodoo and other things that puzzles me; but this I know. They who walk in the light need fear no lasting hurt."

"Sometimes one's light gets dim," said Marston.

"That is when we stray into the shadow and our eyes are dull. The light burns steadily; it will not go out."

Don Felix came back from the hatch and stopped for dinner. When he and Father Sebastian had gone, Marston asked Wyndham: "What about the other lot of goods that was already in the hold?"

"Well?" said Wyndham. "Do you see any object for our returning the stuff? For that matter, I don't know to whom it ought to be returned."

Marston said the goods could wait at the village until the owner claimed payment. "We promised Don Felix we would not take this cargo," he added.

"You mean, I promised?" Wyndham rejoined. "My promise applied to the particular lot he grumbled about. Anyhow, I want the goods. We can sell them for a high price."

Marston admitted that the argument was plausible, although he doubted if it were ethically sound. Still he must not be fastidiously critical about his friend. He was rich and free from one kind of temptation; Harry was poor. Wyndham noted his hesitation and resumed:

"Our voyage is not a yachting excursion. We are frankly out for what we can earn, and I'm, so to speak, now on trial. I'm young and the head of a house that people knew was tottering when I took control. Chisholm and Flora's relations have reserved their judgment; they're willing to give me a fair chance, but wait to see what I can do. Well, you know my drawbacks and how much depends on my making good. In order to do so, I'll run all risks."

Marston thought there was a risk Wyndham did not see. Flora Chisholm was honest and proud. Her lover's success would not satisfy her if she disapproved the means he used. This, however, was an awkward subject and Marston owned that to imagine Harry would give her grounds for disapproving was taking much for granted. He let the matter go and began to talk about something else.

For all that, when Wyndham left him he lighted a fresh cigarette and mused. Harry was his friend, but he began to see he had got a habit of making allowances for him that he might not have made for others. Harry had a strange charm and individuality; somehow one could not judge him by conventional rules. Then Marston remembered that Mabel had let him go in order that he might be Harry's protector, but the dangers he was to be guarded from were not physical. Marston understood this better now and doubted if he were clever enough for the job; Mabel did not mean him to be a hypercritical prig. Anyhow, he had undertaken the job and Mabel, perhaps rather foolishly, trusted him. He threw his cigarette away and went off to superintend the stowage of the cargo.

The moon was getting small and the tides were higher when, one evening, a messenger asked them to come to the village. They went up river in the mist, and Marston felt languid and dejected. The day had been very hot and it was not much cooler at dark. The stagnant air was hard to breathe, there was something daunting in the silence, and the splash of paddles sounded harshly loud. When they landed they found Don Felix alone in his house except for a half-breed woman and Father Sebastian. He lay in a fiber hammock and Marston saw he was very ill. His black eyes were half shut, his face was a livid color and wet with clammy sweat.

The room was brightly lighted and the half-breed woman sat on the ground in a limp, huddled pose, with a black shawl hiding her shoulders and head. She did not move when the others came in, but Don Felix's glance hinted at relief, and Father Sebastian indicated two American bent-wood chairs that looked strangely out of harmony with the mud walls and floor.

"If we had known you were ill, we would have brought our medicine chest," Marston said. "What is the matter?"

"Who knows?" said Don Felix, dully, and Marston imagined the Castilian rejoinder meant his question admitted of no reply. "I will not live until the morning, but I have lived longer than I sometimes thought. It does not matter now the good father and my friends have come. I am no more afraid."

Marston was puzzled; somehow Don Felix looked afraid. The first part of his statement was easier to understand, because Marston had learned in Africa that negroes and uncivilized half-breeds slip easily out of life and often seem to know when theirs will end. But if Don Felix was not afraid to go, what did he fear?

"Is there nobody about? Where are the working boys?" Wyndham asked.

"They have gone; they know," Don Felix replied, and Marston felt half daunted as he asked himself; What did the boys know? "But you will stay?" the other went on anxiously.

"Of course," said Wyndham in a quiet voice.

Father Sebastian looked up, as if to thank him, and Marston saw Harry had taken the proper line. He felt there was no use in trying to persuade Don Felix he was not very ill. It was significant that the priest had not tried.

"Now we will talk a little," Don Felix said to Wyndham. "There is some business to talk about."

Wyndham glanced at Father Sebastian, who made a sign of permission, and then got up and went to the door with Marston. They sat down on a bench outside and a beam of light and the dull voices of the others came through the door. Marston did not hear the woman; she had not spoken at all, but sat motionless and huddled. He had not seen her face and never knew what she was like. All was quiet in the village, and outside the feeble beam the gloom was strangely deep. Marston sympathized with Don Felix's liking for plenty of light.

"What has caused his illness?" he asked.

"Poison, I think," Father Sebastian replied. "Our friend is a good Catholic, but he is half persuaded it is something else."

"The other thing's ridiculous, though I suppose they claim to use magic in the bush. But you ought to know something about native poisons."

"I know many, but Don Felix's symptoms are strange," said Father Sebastian, quietly.

Marston asked him about the symptoms and carefully noted his answers. Then he remarked: "I don't altogether understand why the boys left him."

"They were afraid. In this country, it is rash to help a victim of Voodoo."

"But they are your people; I mean, they belong to your flock."

"They are human and one must not expect too much from men who have long walked in the gloom. The old gods are powerful."

"The Obeah gods are devils!" Marston declared with an anger that rather surprised himself.

Father Sebastian glanced at the surrounding dark, in which blurred trees vaguely loomed.

"It is possible there are devils yonder. Things are done they would approve," he remarked quietly.

"I understand the Bat is Don Felix's enemy. Do you think he poisoned him?"

"I do not know. Perhaps we shall never know. In this country, many people are poisoned."

Marston clenched his fist. "Don Felix is Wyndhams' agent and I'm a partner in the house. If I find out who poisoned him, I'll see the fellow is held accountable."

He stopped, for Wyndham came to the door, beckoning the priest.

"He wants you," he said, and they went in.

Marston long remembered the next hour or two. At first Don Felix was shaken by spasms of pain and groaned, but was silent afterwards. His eyes were dull and half shut, and when they opened wider they turned apprehensively to the open door. Sometimes he glanced about the room and Marston thought he took courage when he saw Father Sebastian sitting near his hammock and Wyndham in the background. Yet he was obviously afraid and his fear was disturbing.

For the most part all was very quiet, but sometimes there were noises that jarred Marston's nerves. Although the night was calm, leaves rustled in the dark and one heard sounds like the stealthy tread of naked feet. Marston fancied shadows lurked about the edge of the beam from the door and found it hard to persuade himself he was deceived, although he knew nobody was there. For a minute or two moisture splashed outside, as if somebody had struck a branch and shaken down big drops. The noise stopped and Marston felt the silence worse.

Now and then he glanced at Wyndham. The latter did not move and looked straight in front, but his quietness was significant and his mouth was firm. Marston imagined he bore some strain, but it was often hard to tell what Harry felt and thought. At length, Don Felix moved his hand awkwardly, as if he felt for something to which he could cling, and the slack movement did not stop until he felt Father Sebastian's grasp. His haunted look was plainer, although he was now too weak to glance at the door. It jarred Marston strangely, and getting up he went out.

Half-an-hour afterwards there was a wild cry in the house and Marston shivered. It was the woman's voice and he knew why she had cried out. Then Wyndham came to the door, and standing with his back against the light, looked about for his comrade.

"We need not stay now," he said. "He was calm at the last and had all the consolation Father Sebastian could give him. An honest man, and brave, I think, believing what it's obvious he did believe!"

"He trusted you," Marston remarked, meaningly.

"It's possible he found our being about some help. We stayed while we were needed."

"That is not what I mean," Marston rejoined. "If ever I saw a man fight with fear, I watched the horrible battle to-night! The fellow was your agent and somebody who destroyed his body sent an unthinkable horror to torment his mind. The thing's devilish! What are you going to do about it?"

"What can I do?" said Wyndham. "I have nothing to go upon."

Marston made a sign of agreement, but his face was very stern. "Some day, perhaps, we'll find out who's accountable. I mean to try."

Wyndham said nothing and they went back to the canoe.

CHAPTER X
MARSTON USES HIS POWER

Soon after Don Felix was buried two strangers visited the schooner. One was white but so burned by the sun and worn by the climate that he looked like a native. Peters was agent for a Hamburg merchant house with a factory on a neighboring lagoon, and told Wyndham he had come because he seldom met a white man. The other was a government officer and stated, apologetically, that his business was to make a few inquiries about Don Felix's death. His skin was nearly white, but his coarse lips and short, curling hair indicated a strain of negro blood.

Marston knew something about the officials who held small posts on the Caribbean coast. For the most part, they were mulattos, paid low wages and willing to augment the latter by presents and bribes. As a rule, he had found them good-humored and indolent, and he imagined Don Ramon Larrinaga would be satisfied with a few particulars and a little money. There was, he thought, no use in trying to put him on the track of the unknown poisoner. He let Wyndham take the man to the cabin and sat under the awning on deck with Peters, for whom he opened a bottle of vermouth.

Peters knew much about the country and told him some rather curious stories. He looked shriveled and desiccated, but his glance was keen and Marston imagined he was very shrewd. Marston, however, did not study him much; it was enough that he was an amusing companion while Wyndham was occupied. By-and-by the latter opened the cabin scuttle and beckoned.

"You have some paper money, Bob. Lend me a few bills," he said.

Marston asked the sum he wanted and was surprised when Wyndham told him.

"Is it necessary to give him so much?" he asked.

"Perhaps it's advisable. We'll soon be ready for sea and I expect the fellow could keep us here while he made fresh inquiries and wrote reports. He's polite, but he rather hinted something like that. Of course, he has no notion of really finding out why Don Felix died."

"We want to find out," Marston rejoined.

Wyndham smiled. "That's another thing; the government officials don't want to bother. If we knew who was accountable, it would be hard to get them to move. However, Don Ramon is waiting – "

Marston took out his wallet and after giving Wyndham some money went back to Peters, whose eyes twinkled.

"Your partner knows the customs of the country," he remarked. "On the whole, it pays to be generous. In a climate like this, it's prudent to save oneself unnecessary trouble."

"We don't want to avoid trouble," Marston replied. "If I was persuaded our agent was poisoned and could get on the poisoner's track, I'd use some energy to follow it up."

Peters shrugged. "You can do nothing; better let it rest. In the fever swamps, men who are well one day often die the next. It is possible they have an enemy in the bush, but the law does not reach up yonder. Sickness is common and human life is cheap."

They talked about something else until Wyndham and Larrinaga came on the deck. The latter bowed to Marston when his canoe was paddled to the gangway.

"I thank you and your partner, señor," he said. "If I can be of help, remember I am your servant."

"It was nothing," Marston replied. "I expect Señor Wyndham has told you all we know, but if you can find out anything important, you'll earn our gratitude. The man who tells me why Don Felix died can count on his reward."

Peters gave him a curious glance and smiled. "After all, the reward may perhaps be claimed. It is not likely, I admit, but things one does not look for sometimes happen."

He got into the canoe and when the negroes paddled off Marston leaned against the rail.

"I suppose we need expect nothing from Larrinaga," he remarked. "How much did you tell him?"

"All I thought it useful for him to know," said Wyndham, rather dryly. "He's a common type; lazy and greedy. Now he's got his bribe, I don't suppose he'll bother us. What did you think about the other?"

"I didn't study him much. Amusing fellow, but you get a hint of force. I imagine he's clever and a man who can hold on. Anyhow, he doesn't matter, since it's improbable we'll see him again. We'll have the holds full in a day or two and I've had enough of the lagoon."

"All the same, I'm rather afraid we can't get away just yet."

Marston began to grumble, but Wyndham smiled.

"There are things to straighten out and now we have no agent I may be needed, but it won't be necessary for you to stay. In fact, I'd like you to take the schooner to the next port and transship the cargo. Then you could come back for me and the extra load I half expect, but I'll know more when I've been to the village, and we'll talk about this again."

Wyndham started for the village next day, and when it was getting dark Marston lounged on deck looking out for the boat. Some of the crew had gone with Wyndham, the rest were in the forecastle, and except for the cook at the galley door Marston had the deck to himself. The yacht was slowly lifting with the tide, which spread across the mud banks in the lagoon. Thin mist drifted about the mangroves and there was not a breath of wind. The water glimmered with faint reflections but in a few minutes it would be dark.

Presently Marston, looking over the rail, imagined there was somebody behind him on the deck. For a moment or two, however, he did not turn. He had heard no step and had recently felt himself highly strung. It looked as if Don Felix's death had given him a jar, but he was not going to indulge his shaken nerves. Still he felt there was somebody about and he slowly and deliberately looked round. The mulatto who had visited him before squatted on the deck, as if he had been there some time. Marston thought he saw amusement in his wrinkled face and his anger arose.

"Cappy Wyndham lib for on board?" the old fellow asked.

"He is not on board," said Marston roughly. "What do you want?"

"You done get them cargo?"

"We did. I don't know if you had much to do with it, but I suppose you expect your dash. What would you like? Money?"

The other shook his head. "Money no good. My friend sick too much. You dash me some medicine."

Marston remembered the packet of drugs and found it needful to use some control. He did not know if the mulatto was the Bat or not, but on the whole thought he was and the horror of his watch at Don Felix's house was fresh. Yet he had nothing to go upon and would not be justified in throwing the fellow overboard. The other watched him with bloodshot eyes, and although his face was inscrutable, Marston began to feel uneasy. He wondered whether the fellow was something of a hypnotist, for he got a hint of force; force that he thought malevolent. Looking forward along the deck, he imagined he saw the cook at the galley door, but the indistinct figure vanished and Marston felt it was significant that the negro had gone inside. Then he braced himself and looked back.

"I will not give you medicine, but since we did get the cargo, perhaps you deserve something," he said. "Wait a minute."

Going to the cabin, he opened a locker in which they had put a quantity of African trade goods. The stuff was rubbish, made to please the negro's eye; brass, jewelry, cheap scent, colored flannel jackets, and frail umbrellas. Marston picked up as much as he could carry and was conscious of rather dry amusement as he climbed the ladder. His visitor had obviously learned English in West Africa and he was going to give him the usual African dash, but he knew the old fellow had no use for the stuff. It was like giving a philosopher a child's toy.

"There you are!" said Marston, throwing down the articles. "Now get off!"

"I lib for see Cappy Wyndham," the other objected.

"Get off the ship," said Marston. "Don't come back!"

He wondered how the man would go. There was no canoe about and the water round the vessel was three or four feet deep; she lay obliquely to the beach. It was ridiculous to imagine the other had vanished on his last visit, but Marston had not seen how he went. Now, however, he meant to watch.

The mulatto picked up the load of rubbish and went forward along the deck. He jumped on the end of the bowsprit and Marston smiled, for it looked as if he could not use his tricks when one kept one's eye on him. Balancing himself cautiously, he walked along the spar and melted in the dark. But in a few moments there was a splash and Marston knew he had dropped from the bowsprit's end into shallow water. Somehow this was soothing and he went to the cabin. In an hour or two Wyndham returned and when they lighted their pipes after supper Marston remarked:

"The old fellow Don Felix imagined was the Bat turned up again."

"Ah," said Wyndham, who looked interested. "Don Felix hadn't seen him; we don't know he is the Bat."

"Father Sebastian agreed that he was, and I haven't much doubt. He said the man was evil and I think evil's the proper word. He gives me a strange nervous shrinking. Have you felt a kind of nausea when you looked at something repulsive? Well, I feel like that when he's about."

"As a rule, you don't let your imagination carry you away," Wyndham remarked. "I expect the heat and the dismal surroundings account for much."

"Anyhow, I gave him a dash and ordered him off the boat."

Wyndham glanced up rather sharply. "Why? We have got some valuable goods, and although we'll have to pay their owners, it looks as if the old fellow was useful."

"I don't want any goods he sends," Marston rejoined. "My notion is they're better left alone. Then I'm a partner, and although I haven't meddled much, I felt I ought to use my power."

"Oh, well," said Wyndham. "You are a partner, I suppose we must let it go."

They talked about something else and next evening Marston took the schooner's dinghy and rowed down the lagoon. He had heard curlew whistle in the dark and wondered whether the birds were as wild as they are in England. For a time he followed the edge of the mangroves, where water dripped from the arched roots, and amphibious things splashed in the muddy caves; and then skirted a sloppy bank the tide flowed across. Now and then he saw a curlew but did not get a shot, and by and by he put down the oars. The damp heat was enervating and he rested and looked about.

It would soon be dark and the mangroves cut in a straight black line against a fading orange glow. The land-breeze began to shake the leaves and now and then a pale branch moved. All was very quiet but for the dull rumble of the surf outside. Marston felt languid and vaguely disturbed. There was something about Wyndham that puzzled him. When they were at sea he did not want a better friend, but it was different when they went ashore to trade. Well, he had come to look after Harry and now understood better why Mabel had let him go. Perhaps Harry really needed to be looked after. Marston was staunch, but he knew Mabel had not altogether trusted his comrade.

There was another thing; he must soon sail the schooner to the next port and he wanted to go, but Harry meant to stay. Marston did not like this, although he could think of no logical objection. The mulatto's visits bothered him. The fellow had asked for Wyndham and somehow Marston would sooner they did not meet. Perhaps the thing was ridiculous, but he felt like that.

It got dark and although there was no obvious reason for his return he felt he ought to get back to the yacht. Recently he had felt highly strung. This was, no doubt, the consequence of pottering about the unhealthy swamps, but he must control his illogical impulses and he lighted his pipe while he let the dinghy drift with the tide.

She floated quietly up the lagoon and presently he saw Columbine's lights in the mist. Pulling a few languid strokes, he let the boat drift again until the vessel's dark side was close ahead. Then he put out his hand and seized a rope. He wore rubber boots, because he had thought he might wade across the mud, and made no noise when he stepped down from the rail. There was nobody on deck, but a light shone in the cabin and when he went aft he heard voices. The skylight was open and one of the voices was the old mulatto's.

Marston stopped abruptly. He wanted to go down and turn out the fellow, but doubted if he would be justified, although he was Wyndham's partner. Somehow it was unthinkable the brute and his comrade should engage in quiet talk. For all that, he did not go, and turning back a few yards stopped again. He must not be a fool, and no doubt the fellow had come to talk about some goods his friends in the bush could supply. Marston did not want the goods, but forced himself to wait.