Kidnapped

A hand gripped his shoulder as though in a vise, and swung him around; the muzzle of an automatic confronted him, and behind it the threatening eyes of Joe glared directly into his own.

"Not a move, you damned spy," a voice said coldly. "Now, Mark, frisk the cuss, and be lively about it. Had a gun, hey; I thought so. Give it to me. Now get the cord over there and give him a turn or two. A very good job, old boy; the fellow is safe enough, I should say."

He turned his eyes away, searching the cabin, confident that West was sufficiently secured.

"Come on out, Mary," he said sharply. "Who is this guy, anyhow?"

A woman came forward through the shadows. West had a glimpse of her face, but the features were unfamiliar. A woman of forty, perhaps, still attractive in appearance, with dark hair and bold black eyes that met his own defiantly. He was puzzled, doubtful as to what it all meant. So this was the woman he had seen on board; not Natalie Coolidge at all. There had been a mistake of some kind; but if so, why had these people given him this sort of reception aboard? These thoughts swept his mind in a flash, as the woman peered forward to see his features more clearly. For a moment she said nothing, and Joe broke out impatiently.

"He's the lad, ain't he?" he asked. "We ain't gone an' picked up the wrong guy?"