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Updated: June 2, 2025
Walking out of the bank president's office Gregory observed a familiar figure leaning idly against one of the grated wickets. And though the man was dressed in the extreme of fashion, he had no difficulty in recognizing him. It was Leo Bandrist, the lord of El Diablo. Gregory returned the islander's nod and hurried to the street.
Bandrist, he remembered, never trusted his money to banks, but paid his bills in yellow gold which he carried in the coin belt about his waist. The observation gave Mascola comfort. Bandrist had enough for them both. He would see that he received his share. He ceased rowing. "Far enough," he muttered. "No." Bandrist's reply was sharp and decisive. "Your exhaust can be heard for miles," he said.
Huddling close to the cavern tunnel he waited for the figure of the man behind him to emerge. When Mascola reached the end of the tunnel he felt himself grasped roughly by the arm and twisted to the rocks. Bandrist recovered his wits quickly when he recognized the Italian. "Quiet," he whispered. "You were a long time coming. There may be men on the beach already. Where is your boat?"
"He walks like a king," commented Dickie Lang. "I wonder if that is Bandrist." Gregory noted the clean-cut figure of the stranger carefully. The man was about his own height though of slighter build, the spareness of his figure being emphasized by the close-fitting riding-trousers and the thin silk shirt which fluttered about him as he strode along.
We must row the launch around the next point at least." Mascola growled his resentment at Bandrist's air of authority. Nevertheless he saw the wisdom of the suggestion and hastily brought out the long ash oars and fastened them in the brass locks. Bandrist pulled the anchor and took his place at one of the sweeps. For some moments the two men rowed silently into the fog.
The questions multiplied with the smoke-wreaths and in the blue haze which enveloped him, Kenneth Gregory beheld his vague and intangible suspicions gradually crystallizing into three fundamental hypotheses: Something crooked was being pulled off at Diablo. Rock and Bandrist were back of it.
Bandrist shot a quick glance at Gregory as the girl mentioned the cannery owner's name. At the girl's reference to her part in the affair his eyes lighted with interest. Then the frown came again to his face. "That is the trouble," he said quickly. "My men do not understand. They know only one way to fight. That is to win.
His mind was occupied with matters of far more importance. It would be well to know just where Bandrist stood concerning a division of his money before they went farther. Now would be a good time to find out. He made the suggestion at once that the islander grant him an advance of funds until such time as he could obtain his money from Legonia and Port Angeles.
Aren't you going to help the boys out?" Gregory shook his head and the grim lines tightened about his mouth. "No," he answered. "Not this time. That is what Rock, Bandrist and Mascola think I am going to do. But I'm going to fool them. There's something back of all this that we can only guess at now. Diablo has a secret our fathers died to learn. I'm sure of it now.
The excited jargon of the islanders as they came upon their disabled fellow confirmed the truth of his words. Jabbering to themselves, and casting sullen glances in the direction of the Petrel, they carried the man over the ledge to the beach. "Mr. Bandrist," said Dickie clearly. "I've as much right to be here as you have. You can't legally keep me from taking the engine out of this boat.
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