"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.