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Updated: June 2, 2025
It was not until the last morsel of food had been consumed, therefore, that Gregory made an effort to voice his thoughts. "What do you think of Bandrist?" he asked suddenly. The girl started, surprised that they should both be thinking of the same man. Her forehead wrinkled slowly as she answered: "I think he's a crook. I don't know why exactly, but I just do. He's too smooth.
Bandrist twisted about, his eyes searching the gray waters astern. "I don't," he began. But his words ended in a choking gasp. Mascola's knife had found its mark and the Italian's fingers were tearing at Bandrist's throat. The islander struggled to reach his gun, but he felt his strength leaving him. The moonlight shimmered before his eyes, mingled with gray splashes of fog.
Mascola had killed her father and Richard Gregory. His son had gone to bring the Italian to justice. But what could five men do on the island against the hordes of Bandrist and Mascola? Who were the mysterious strangers who had accompanied them from Legonia? The questions crowded close upon one another as they raced through her brain.
I'm on the trail of a pretty good story, Cap, if it works out all right. Shouldn't be surprised if I might not drop in on you any time. If I do, I'll want a boat to go over to Diablo. Keep this all under your hat. It isn't censored." For some time Gregory stared at Hawkins' letter. The information gleaned from its contents shed a new light upon El Diablo. Bandrist and Rock were in cahoots.
Flattening his body against the slimy fish, Gregory wriggled foot by foot in the direction of the big rock which sheltered Mascola. The game was up. Bandrist emptied his revolver in the direction of the advancing deputies and drew cautiously away from Mascola. The Fuor d'Italia lay at anchor in the cove beyond the goose-neck.
Would do it again if he got the chance. But Bandrist would have no more chances. Reaching out his hand, Mascola took the gold with muttered words of thanks. Then his fingers sought the switch and the noise of the motor died suddenly into silence. "Listen." Mascola turned quickly in his seat and looked over the stern. At the same time his right hand sought his dagger.
Without doubt he had him covered with his revolver. Fuming with impotent rage, the Italian growled: "Well, you're the boss. It's up to you." As he struggled to his feet he made up his mind to get square with the islander. Again resuming his oars, he rowed steadily until Bandrist gave the order to start the motor. The Fuor d'Italia leaped forward and the cool sea air fanned Mascola's flaming face.
Through the long afternoon they worked in silence. As Gregory stripped the iron chaulks from the deck and removed the stays, he noticed that Bandrist leaned idly against the rail with his blue eyes following the movements of Dickie Lang with great interest.
Gregory left Legonia at ten-thirty with his speed-boat. There were five in the launch. Four men and Miss Lang." Mascola drew in his breath sharply. "That damned Lang girl," he began. "She is a " Bandrist slid from his chair with a quick movement which carried him wriggling about the table. "Keep your tongue still," he gritted as he towered over the Italian. "You talk too much."
Gregory's boat is faster than yours for one," Bandrist disputed quietly. "The new revenue cutters are faster for others. Why are you a fool?" A hot argument began on the instant between the two men. An argument which ended by Bandrist's knocking Mascola to the cockpit. Mascola lay where he fell for a moment, dazed by the blow. Bandrist was not rowing he noticed.
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