He had learned little of the slightest value; merely that Natalie had been of the party leaving in the automobile the night before. She, undoubtedly, had been the one who had dropped the note. Then, in spite of all they said about her, in spite of what she had told him, she was actually a prisoner, desperately begging for assistance to escape. As to the other things Hogan had told him, the probability was they were mostly lies. West did not believe the girl had returned to 'Fairlawn,' the story did not sound natural. If she had written that note, these fellows would never trust her alone, where she could communicate with friends. They might venture to send her in to talk with him, knowing her every word was overheard, but surely they would never be reckless enough to leave her free to act as she pleased. That was unthinkable. Besides why should they have taken this yacht, and sailed it out secretly in the night unless she was hidden away aboard? The only conceivable object would be to thus keep her safely beyond sight and hearing. And that would be a reason why Hobart's wife should also be on board--to look after the girl. The longer he thought it all over, the more thoroughly was he convinced they were both prisoners on the same vessel. Yet what could he do? There was no answer forthcoming; no possibility of breaking forth from that room was apparent; he was unarmed, helpless. If he did succeed in breaking through the door, he would only encounter an armed guard, and pit himself against five or six men, criminals probably, who would count his death a small matter compared to their own safety. He sank down, with head in his hands, totally unnerved--it was his fate to attempt nothing; only to wait on fortune. Mark brought in food, merely opening the door slightly, and sliding the tray in on the floor. No words were exchanged, nor was the tray removed until just at twilight, when the fellow appeared again on a similar mission. It became dark, but no light was furnished. Outside the clouds had thickened, and a heavy swell was tossing the vessel about rather roughly. Seemingly the engine was merely endeavouring to maintain head-way, with no port in immediate prospect; they were steering aimlessly into the promise of a stormy night. No sound reached him from the cabin, and finally, worn out mentally and physically, West flung himself on the lower bunk, and lay there motionless, staring up into the intense darkness. CHAPTER XXIV THE SINKING YACHT