visible, nor could he even be sure of the close proximity of
a boat. There seemed to be a smudge there at the left, a black, lumping
shadow, shapeless against the background of sea; yet he could not be
sure. Even as he gazed at it doubtfully, the dim object disappeared,
fading away like a mirage. No sound reached him to cause the vision to
seem real--no voice, no creak of oars, no flap of a sail; yet something
told him that mysterious shadow was a boat, a boat filled with men,
creeping away silently into the night, fleeing from the yacht, and
vanishing into the darkness.

My God, what could such action mean? Why were these fellows deserting the
_Seminole_, leaving him helpless aboard, locked into that stateroom? Was
the yacht disabled? sinking? and had they merely forgotten him in their
own eagerness to escape? Were they in mid-lake? or close to some point of
land? Had every one gone, leaving the vessel totally abandoned, a wreck
buffeted by the surges, doomed to go down, unseen, its final fate
unknown? Unknown! The word rising to his brain was the answer. There was
the crest of the plot. What could be easier, or safer, than this ending?
Who would ever know the truth? Who could ever prove anything, even if
they suspected? And who was there to suspect?

No one had reason to believe he was aboard the _Seminole_; not even
McAdams. If it was to their interest to get him permanently out of the
way--if Hobart had so decided--what simpler method could be found than
the sinking of the yacht? The very crew might be innocent of the
purpose, dupes of the conspiracy; they might even be unaware of his
presence aboard, and deceived by Hogan into the belief that the vessel
had opened a seam, and must sink shortly, would take to the boat without
suspecting any one was left behind. They could so testify in all honesty
if any question ever arose. The very simplicity of the scheme meant
safety; yet the possibility of such cold blooded murder had never before
occurred to him. Unknown! without a trace left; only a boat crew landing
somewhere on the coast at dawn, and scattering to the four winds. It was
a plot infernal.

West stopped, his hands clinched, his heart seeming to stop its pulsing.
But if Natalie Coolidge was also prisoner on board, what of her? Wasn't
that the very thing most probable? Of course it was; how foolish he had
been. These men, recklessly criminal, as they were, would never sacrifice
the yacht, and risk their own li