“I have been a fool, I know,” went on Clayton, seemingly unable to keep his tongue quiet. “But I meant to make good.” “Be careful.” “I am careful. I have nothing to hide. The suit case holding the property is over on that chair, in my cabin. On the table is a letter I have written to Mr. Reed, and which would have been mailed as soon as I could get ashore. You can read it, and it will convince you that I have been telling the truth.” “You’d better tell that to the judge,” interrupted the officer. “I want to tell it to you. I wish you’d look at that letter.” “It isn’t necessary. Hold out your hands.” In another second the handcuffs were clapped on the wrists of Paul Clayton. For the first time in his life he was a manacled prisoner. A dry sob broke from his throat. It was then, as the officer stepped behind him and placed a hand on the precious suit case, that a curious change came over the face of the man from headquarters. He bent over the suit case and a grin widened his mouth in so extraordinary a way that, if anybody who knew him had seen him at that instant, he would have declared that this detective lieutenant from New York was none other than John Garrison Rayne, the Apache! “This is dead easy!” he muttered. “And it’s good that Nick Carter has gone off the ship. I’ll take these few things from my innocent young friend here, and he can get the handcuffs off when Carter comes back.” How the scoundrel had contrived to get hold of the semiofficial uniform he wore in so short a time was his own secret. It need only be said that when a man has six hundred dollars in cash in his pocket, he can get most things he wants, up to the value of his pile, in San Juan, just as he can in any other busy center. At all events, here was John Garrison Rayne on the _Cherokee_, in the guise of a detective, seemingly carrying everything before him. He had completely fooled Captain Bill Lawton, and Paul Clayton had not the least suspicion that he was anything but what he pretended to be. “You will remain in this cabin a prisoner for the present,” he said shortly, turning to Clayton. “I shall have to go ashore and telegraph to New York for instructions. Ah, here’s Captain Lawton!” The skipper was coming down the companionway. He raised his eyebrows as he saw that Paul Clayton was standing at the stateroom door, with handcuffs on his wrists. “Nabbed him, eh?” he growled. “I have him under arrest,” replied Rayne, with dignity. “If you will bring a couple of your men to guard the prisoner, I will stay till you come back.” “All right! I’ll get my bos’n, Clegg, and another man,” replied the captain. “Clegg is the sort of fellow who won’t take any funny business from anybody. With him and another, your prisoner will be as safe as if he was in jail ashore.” The captain hurried away to get Clegg--who, in the absence of Joe Sykes, was acting as bos’n. He was glad to do anything he could to help the officer from New York.