But however chaotic Professor Goodman’s thoughts, they were like a placid pool compared to Drummond’s. He had first recovered consciousness as he lay on the floor in the room below, and with that instinctive caution which was second nature to him, he had remained motionless. Two men were talking, and the sound of his own name instinctively put him on his guard. At first he listened vaguely⁠—his head was still aching infernally⁠—while he tried to piece together in his mind what had happened. He remembered taking the receiver off the telephone in the deserted house; he remembered a stunning blow on the back of his head; and after that he remembered nothing more. And since he realised that he was now lying on the floor, it was obvious that an overwhelming desire for his comfort was not a matter of great importance with the floor’s owner. The first point, therefore, to be decided was the identity of that gentleman.

On that score he was not left long in doubt, and it needed all his marvellous self-control to go on lying doggo when he realised who it was. It was Peterson⁠—and as he listened to the thoughtful arrangements for his future it was evident that Peterson’s feelings for him were still not characterised by warm regard. He heard the other man pleasantly suggest finishing him off then and there; he heard Peterson’s refusal and the reasons for it. And though his head was still swimming, and thinking was difficult, his subconscious mind dictated the obvious course. As long as he remained unconscious, Peterson’s insensate hatred for him would keep him safe. So far, so good⁠—but it wasn’t very far. However, they couldn’t sit there talking the whole night, and once they left him alone, or even with some man to guard him, he had ample faith in his ability to get away. And once out of the house he and Peterson would be on level terms again.

Once again he turned his attention to the conversation. Yacht⁠—what was this about a yacht? With every sense alert he strove to make his throbbing brain take in what they were saying. And gradually as he listened the main outline of the whole diabolical scheme grew clear in all its magnificent simplicity. But who on earth was the man upstairs to whom Peterson kept alluding? Whoever he was, he was presumably completely unconscious of the fate in store for him. And it struck Drummond that he was going to complicate matters. It would mean intense rapidity of action on his part once he was out of the house if he was going to save the poor devil’s life.

For one brief instant, as Peterson bent over him, he had a wild thought of bringing matters to a head then and there. To get his hands on the swine once more was an almost overmastering temptation, but he resisted it successfully. It would mean a fight and an unholy fight at that, and Drummond realised that conditions were all against him. His head, for one thing⁠—and total ignorance of the house. And then, to his relief, Peterson sat down again. No⁠—there was nothing for it but to go on shamming and take his chance later.

Up to date he had not dared to open his eyes for even the fraction of a second, so he had no idea in what guise Peterson was at present masquerading. Nor had he a notion as to what the second man looked like. All he knew about that sportsman was that he was the dealer of the blow that had stunned him. And Drummond had a rooted dislike for men who stunned him. His name he gathered was Freyder, so he added Mr. Freyder to his mental blacklist.

At last, to his relief, the conversation had ended, and he heard the orders given about his disposal for the night. Inert and sagging, he had allowed himself to be carried upstairs, and thrown on the bed. And then in very truth nature had asserted herself. He ceased to sham and fell asleep. For how long he remained asleep he had no idea, but he awoke to find himself alone in the room. The door was open, and from outside there came the sound of voices. It seemed to him that it was now or never, and the next instant he was off the bed. He slipped off his shoes and stole into the passage.

The voices were coming from the next room, and the door of that was also open. He recognised Peterson and the man called Freyder, and without further delay he turned and went in the opposite direction, only to stop short in his tracks as a terrible scream rang out. It came from the room where Peterson was.

Like a shadow he stole back and looked in, and the sight he saw almost made him wonder if he wasn’t delirious. For there, moaning pitifully in a chair, was Professor Goodman. That was the staggering fact which drummed in his brain⁠—Professor Goodman was not dead, but alive. But⁠—what to do: that was the point. They were going to torture the poor old man again, and he already heard steps in the hall.

And like a flash there came the only possible solution. Downstairs they had mentioned concussion: so be it⁠—he would be concussed. It was the only hope, and the ease with which Freyder’s face made contact with the electric furnace was a happy augury.

But he was under no delusions. From being a helpless log, he had suddenly become an obstreperous madman. It was going to make things considerably more difficult. And one thing it had definitely done⁠—it had lessened any chance he had of escaping from the house. They would be certain to tie him up. Still, now that he had discovered the amazing fact about Professor Goodman, it would have been impossible for him to leave the house in any case, unless he could take the old man with him.

With his hands lashed together on the bed, and this time feigning sleep, he tried to see the way out. Three men were in the room with him now, and for a time he was inclined to curse himself for a fool. Better almost to have let the old man be burnt again⁠—and got away himself for help. But no man⁠—certainly not Drummond⁠—could have allowed such a thing to take place if it was in his power to prevent it. Besides, Freyder’s face was an immense compensation.

Why were they torturing him? There could only be one reason⁠—to compel him to do something which he didn’t wish to. And what could that be except reveal to Peterson the secret of his process? The more he thought about it, the clearer it became. Once Peterson was in possession of the secret, any further necessity for keeping Goodman alive would have departed. Obviously he had deceived Peterson once⁠—but would he have the pluck to do it again? That he was an obstinate old man at times, Drummond knew⁠—but torture has a way of overcoming obstinacy. Especially Peterson’s brand of torture.

For all that, however, torture would be better than death, and to give Peterson the secret would be signing his death-warrant. For hours he lay there trying to see a ray of light. That Peterson would try to restore him to sanity before killing him he knew, but, at the same time, it was not safe to bank on it absolutely. That Peterson would kill Goodman at the first moment possible he also knew. And that was the fact which tied his hands so completely.

If only he could get at Goodman⁠—if only he could warn him not to give away his secret, whatever happened⁠—there was hope. The Professor’s life was safe till then; they might hurt him⁠—but his life was safe. And if only he could get away, he might pull it off even now. The process, he knew, took six hours; if the Professor had the nerve to bluff Peterson twice more⁠—twelve hours, say fourteen.⁠ ⁠… A lot could be done in fourteen hours.

And suddenly he lay very still⁠—two of the men were leaving the room. Was this his chance? He stirred uneasily on the bed, as a sick man does who is asleep. Then he rolled over on his back breathing stertorously. It was all perfectly natural, and roused no suspicions in the mind of the remaining man. But it brought Drummond’s hands into the position in which he wanted them.

Contemptuously the man came over and stared at him as he lay. It was a foolish thing to do, and it was still more foolish to lean down a little to see the patient better. For the next moment a pair of hands with fingers like steel hooks had fastened on his throat, and the sleeper was asleep no more. Gasping and choking, he beat impotently at the big man’s face, striking it again and again, but he might as well have hit the wall for all the good he did. And gradually his struggles grew fainter and fainter till they ceased altogether.

Thus had Drummond got his message through to Professor Goodman. On the spur of the moment it had occurred to him that by pretending to believe he was Peterson not only would it increase his chances of speaking to the Professor, but it would also tend to strengthen the belief that he was insane. An unexpected and additional help towards that end had been his appearance, though that he couldn’t be expected to know. And now as once again he lay on the bed⁠—bound this time hand and foot⁠—he wondered desperately if he had succeeded.

Professor Goodman had got his whispered message⁠—that he knew. But had he been in time? In addition, so far as he could tell, he had, up to the present, successfully bluffed Peterson and everyone else in the house as to his mental condition. But could he keep it up? And, anyway, trussed up as he now was, and as common sense told him he would continue to be until he was taken on board the yacht, what good would it do even if he could? It might save his life for the time being, but it wouldn’t help his ultimate hopes of getting away. Nor the Professor’s. Once they were on board he had to admit to himself that their chance of coming out alive was small. Anything can happen on a boat where the whole crew are unscrupulous. And even if the possibility arose of his getting away by going overboard and swimming, it was out of the question for the Professor. The chances were that the old man couldn’t swim a stroke, and Drummond, powerful though he was in the water, was not such a fool as to imagine that he could support a non-swimmer for possibly several hours. Besides, it was not a matter of great difficulty to lower a boat, and an oar is a nasty thing to be hit on the head with, when swimming. No, the only hope seemed to be that Professor Goodman should hold out, and that by some fluke he should get away. Or send a message. But whom to?⁠—and how? He didn’t even know where he was.

And at that very moment the principal part of that forlorn hope was being dashed to the ground in the next room. Once again the benevolent Mr. Robinson was chiselling out the clinker from the metal retort, while the Professor watched him wearily from his chair. There was no mistake this time; Drummond’s warning had come too late. And with a cry of triumph Mr. Robinson felt his chisel hit something hard: the diamond was there. He dug on feverishly, and the next minute a big uncut diamond⁠—dirty still with the fragments of clinker adhering to it⁠—lay in his hand. He gazed at it triumphantly, and for a moment or two felt almost unable to speak. Success at last: assured and beyond doubt. In his notebook was the process; there was no need for further delay.

And then he realised that Professor Goodman was saying something.

“I have shown you as I promised.” His voice seemed very weary. “That is the method of making the ordinary white diamond. Tomorrow, after I have rested for a while, I will show you how to make one that is rose-pink.”

Mr. Robinson hesitated.

“Is there much difference in the system?” he remarked thoughtfully.

The Professor’s voice shook a little⁠—but then it was hardly to be wondered at. He had had a trying evening.

“It will mean obtaining a somewhat rare strontium salt,” he answered. “Also it has to be added to the other salts in minute doses from time to time to ensure perfect mixing. The heat also has to be regulated a little differently.”

His eyes searched the other’s face anxiously. Delay him⁠—at all costs. Drummond’s urgent words still rang in his ears, and this seemed the only chance of doing so. The main secret he had already given away; there was nothing he could do or say to alter that. Only with Drummond’s warning had he realised finally that he had been fooled; that in all probability the promise of rejoining his wife had been a lie from beginning to end. And the realisation had roused every atom of fight he had in him.

He was a shrewd old man for all his absentmindedness, and during the hour he had sat there while the furnace cooled his mind had been busy. How Drummond had got there he didn’t know, but in Drummond lay his only hope. And if Drummond said delay, he would do his best to carry out instructions. Moreover, Drummond had said something else too, and he was a chemist.

“Where can you obtain this strontium salt?” asked Mr. Robinson at length.

“From any big chemist in London,” replied the other.

Mr. Robinson fingered the diamond in his hand. It would mean additional delay, but did that matter very much? Now that he was in possession of the secret he had half decided to get away early in the morning. The yacht was ready; he could step on board when he liked. But there were undoubted advantages in being able to make rose-pink diamonds as well as the ordinary brand, and it struck him that, after all, he might just as well adhere to his original plan. Drummond was safe; there was nothing to fear from the old fool in the chair. So why not?

“Give me the name of the salt and it shall be sent for tomorrow,” he remarked.

“If you’re sending,” said the Professor mildly, “you might get some other salts too. By my process I can make them blue, green, black, or yellow, as well as red. Each requires a separate salt, though the process is basically the same.”

Once again Mr. Robinson frowned thoughtfully, and once again he decided⁠—why not? Blue diamonds were immensely valuable, and he might as well have the process complete.

“Make a list of everything you want,” he snapped, “and I will get the whole lot tomorrow. And now, after you’ve done that, go to bed.”

He watched the old man go shambling along the passage to his room; then, slipping the diamond into his pocket, he went in to have a look at Drummond. He was apparently asleep, and for a while Mr. Robinson stood beside him with a look of malignant satisfaction on his face. That his revenge on the man lying bound and helpless on the bed added to the risk of his plans, he knew; but no power on earth would have made him forego it. In the eyes of the world Professor Goodman was already dead; in his case he would merely be confirming an already established fact. But with Drummond it was different. There would be a hue and cry: there was bound to be. But what did it matter? Was he not going to die himself⁠—officially? And dead men are uninteresting people to pursue.

“Don’t relax your guard for an instant,” he said to the two men. “We shall be leaving here tomorrow afternoon.”

He left the room and went down to his own particular sanctum. He had made up his mind as to what he would do, and it seemed to solve all the difficulties in the most satisfactory way. These special salts should be sent direct to the yacht, and Professor Goodman should initiate him into their mysteries on board. He would have the electric furnace taken from the house, and the experiments could be carried out just as easily at sea. And when finally he felt confident of making all the various colours, and not till then, he would drop the old fool overboard. Drummond also; the extra few days would increase the chance of his becoming sane again.

He suddenly bethought him of Freyder, and went into his room. His face, even his eyes, were completely hidden by bandages, and Mr. Robinson expressed his sympathy. In fact after Freyder had exhausted his vocabulary on the subject of Drummond, Mr. Robinson even went so far as to promise his subordinate a special private chance of getting some of his own back.

“You may do anything you like to him, my dear fellow,” he said soothingly, “save actually kill him. I shall watch it all with the greatest pleasure. I only reserve to myself the actual coup de grâce.”

He closed the door and, returning to his study, took the diamond out of his pocket. The tools at his disposal were not very delicate, but he determined, even at the risk of damaging the diamond, to work with them. He wanted to make assurance doubly sure, and it was not until the first faint streaks of dawn were coming through the window that he rose from his work with a sigh of satisfaction. On the table in front of him lay diamonds to the value of some six or seven thousand pounds; there had been no mistake this time. And with a sigh of satisfaction he placed them in his safe.

He felt suddenly tired, and glancing at his watch he found that it was already half-past three. A little rest was essential, and Mr. Robinson went upstairs. He stopped by the Professor’s room and looked in: the old man was fast asleep in bed. Then he went to see Drummond once more, and found him muttering uneasily under the watchful eyes of his two guards. Everything was correct and in order, and with another sigh of satisfaction he retired to his room for a little well-earned repose.

It was one of his assets that he could do with a very small amount of sleep, and eight o’clock the following morning found him up and about again. His first care were his two prisoners, and to his surprise he found the Professor already up and pottering about in the room where he had been working the night before. He seemed in the best of spirits, and for a moment or two Mr. Robinson eyed him suspiciously. He quite failed to see what the old man had to be pleased about.

“One day nearer rejoining my dear wife,” he remarked as he saw the other standing in the doorway. “You can’t think how excited I feel about it.”

“Not being married myself,” agreed Mr. Robinson pleasantly, “I admit that I cannot enter into your joy. You’re up early this morning.”

“I couldn’t sleep after six,” explained the Professor. “And so I decided to rise.”

Mr. Robinson grunted.

“Your breakfast will be brought to you shortly,” he remarked. “I would advise you to eat a good one, as we shall be starting shortly afterwards.”

“Starting?” stammered the Professor. “But I thought you wished me to show you how to make blue diamonds. And the other colours too.”

“I do,” answered the other. “But you will show me, Professor, on board my yacht. I trust that you are a good sailor, though at this time of year the sea should be calm.”

Professor Goodman stood by the electric furnace plucking nervously at his collar. It seemed as if the news of this early departure had given him a bit of a shock.

“I see,” he said at length. “I did not understand that we were starting so soon.”

“You have no objections, I hope,” murmured Mr. Robinson politely. “The sooner we start, the sooner will come that delirious moment when you once more clasp Mrs. Goodman in your arms. And now I will leave you, if you will excuse me. I have one or two things to attend to⁠—amongst them our obstreperous young friend of last night.”

He strolled along the passage into the room where Drummond was. And though he realised that the idea was absurd, he felt a little throb of relief when he saw him still lying bound on the bed. Ridiculous, of course, that he should find anything else, and yet Drummond, in the past, had extricated himself from such seemingly impossible situations that the sight of him bound and helpless was reassuring. Drummond smiled at him vacantly, and with a shrug of his shoulders he turned to the two men.

“Has he given any trouble?” he asked.

“Not a bit, guv’nor,” answered one of them. “He’s as balmy as he can be. Grins and smiles all over his face, except when that old bloke next door comes near him.”

Mr. Robinson stared at the speaker.

“What do you mean?” he said. “Has the old man been in here this morning?”

“He came in about half an hour ago,” answered the other. “Said he wanted to see how the poor fellow was getting on. And as soon as Drummond saw him he started snarling and cursing and trying to get at him. I tell you we had the devil’s own job with him⁠—and then after a while he lay quiet again. Thinks he’s some bloke of the name of Peterson.”

“How long was the old man here?” said Mr. Robinson abruptly.

“About half a minute. Then we turned him out.”

“Under no circumstances is he to be allowed in here again.”

Mr. Robinson again bent over Drummond and stared into his eyes. But no sign of reason showed on his face: the half-open mouth still grinned its vacant grin. And after a while Mr. Robinson straightened up again. He had allowed himself to be alarmed unnecessarily: Drummond was still off his head.

“We are leaving at once after breakfast,” he remarked. “He is to be put in the ambulance as he is. And if he makes any noise⁠—gag him.”

“Very good, guv’nor. Is he to have anything to eat?”

“No⁠—let the swine starve.”

Mr. Robinson left the room without a backward glance, and the sudden desperate glint in Drummond’s eyes passed unnoticed. For now indeed things did look utterly hopeless. The Professor’s plan passed to him on a piece of paper and which he had conveyed to his mouth and swallowed as soon as read, even if it was a plan of despair, had in it the germ of success. It was nothing more nor less than to set fire to the house with chemicals that would burn furiously, and trust to something happening in the confusion. At any rate it might have brought in outside people⁠—the police, the fire-brigade. And Peterson could hardly have left him bound upstairs with the house on fire. Not from any kindly motives⁠—but expediency would have prevented it. Only the chemicals had to come from London, and if they were starting at once after breakfast it was obvious that the stuff couldn’t arrive in time.

The dear old Professor he took his hat off to. Tortured and abominably treated, he had kept his head and his nerve in the most wonderful way. For a man of his age and sedentary method of life not to have broken down completely under the strain was nothing short of marvellous. And not only had he not broken down, but he’d thought out a scheme and got it to Drummond wrapped round a Gillette razor-blade. It had taken a bit of doing to get the blade into his waistcoat pocket, and had his arms been bound to his body he couldn’t have done it. But fortunately only his wrists were lashed together, and he had managed it. And now it all seemed wasted.

He debated in his mind whether he would try to cut the ropes, and chance everything in one wild fight at once. But the two men eating their breakfast near the foot of his bed were burly brutes. And even if by twisting himself up he had been able to cut the cord round his legs without their noticing he would be at a terrible disadvantage, cramped after his confinement as he was. Besides, there was the Professor. Nothing now would have induced him to leave the old man. Whatever happened, he must stay beside him in the hopes of being able to help him. Because one thing was clear. Even if he personally escaped, unless he could get help before the yacht started⁠—the Professor was doomed. The yacht was going down with all hands: there lay the devilish ingenuity of the scheme.

And even if he could have prevented the yacht sailing, he knew Peterson quite well enough to realise that he would merely change his plans at the last moment. As he had so often done in the past, he would disappear, with the secret⁠—having first killed Professor Goodman.

No; the only possible chance lay in his going on the yacht himself and trusting to luck to find a way out. Incidentally it was perhaps as well that the only possible chance did lie in that direction, since, as far as Drummond could see, his prospects of not going on board were even remoter than his prospects of getting any breakfast.

A sudden shuffling step in the passage outside brought his two guards to their feet. They dashed to the door just as Professor Goodman appeared, and then they stopped with a laugh. For the old man was swaying backwards and forwards and his eyes were rolling horribly.

“I’ve been drugged,” he muttered, and pitched forward on his face.

The men sat down again, leaving him where he lay.

“That’ll keep him quiet,” said one of them. “It was in his tea.”

“If I had my way I’d put a bucket of it into the swab on the bed,” answered the other. “It’s him that wants keeping quiet.”

The first speaker laughed brutally.

“He won’t give much trouble. Once we’ve got him on board, it’ll be just pure joy to watch the fun. Freyder’s like a man that’s sat on a hornet’s nest this morning.”

And at that moment Freyder himself entered the room. His face was still swathed in bandages, and Drummond beamed happily at him. The sight of him provided the one bright spot in an otherwise gloomy horizon, though the horrible blow which he received on the mouth rather obscured the brightness, and gave him a foretaste of what he could expect from the gentleman. But true to his role, Drummond still grinned on, though he turned his head away to hide the smouldering fury in his eyes. In the past he had been fairly successful with Peterson’s lieutenants, and he registered a mental vow that Mr. Julius Freyder would not be an exception.

He watched him go from the room kicking the sprawling body of the Professor contemptuously as he passed, and once again he was left to his gloomy thoughts. It was all very well to register vows of vengeance, but to carry them out first of all entailed getting free. And then a sudden ray of hope dawned in his mind. How were they going to be got on board? Stretchers presumably, and that would be bound to attract attention if the yacht was lying in any harbour. But was she? She might be lying out to sea somewhere, and send a boat ashore for them in some deserted stretch of coast. That was the devil of it, he hadn’t the faintest idea where he was. He might be in Essex; he might be on the South Coast; he might even be down on the Bristol Channel.

A little wearily he gave it up; after all, what was the good of worrying? He was bound and the Professor was drugged, and as far as he could see any self-respecting life insurance would hesitate at a ninety-five percent premium for either of them. His principal desire at the moment was for breakfast, and as that was evidently not in the programme, all he could do was to inhale the aroma of eggs and bacon, and wonder why he’d been such a damned fool as to take that telephone call.

The tramp of footsteps on the stairs roused him from his lethargy, and he half-turned his head to look at the door. Two men were there with a stretcher, on which they were placing the Professor. Then they disappeared, to return again a few moments later with another, which they put down beside his bed. It was evidently his turn now, but, even bound as he was, they showed no inclination to treat him as unceremoniously as the Professor. His reputation seemed to have got abroad, and, though he smiled at them inanely and burbled foolishly, they invoked the assistance of the other two men, who had just finished their breakfast, before lifting him up and putting him on the stretcher.

In the hall stood Mr. Robinson, who again peered at him intently as he passed, and then Drummond found himself hoisted into the back of a car which seemed to be a cross between an ambulance and a caravan. The back consisted of two doors instead of the conventional ambulance curtains, and on each side was a window covered with a muslin blind. Two bunks, one on each side, stretched the full length of the car and a central gangway, which had a little washbasin at the end nearest the engine, separated them.

On one of these bunks lay Professor Goodman, breathing with the heavy, stertorous sounds of the drugged. The men pitched him on to the other, as Mr. Robinson, who had followed them out, appeared.

“You have your orders,” he remarked curtly. “If Drummond makes a sound⁠—gag him. I shall be on board myself in about two hours.”

He closed the doors, leaving the two men inside, and the car started. It was impossible to see out of either window owing to the curtains, and the ostentatious production of a revolver by one of the men removed any thought Drummond might have had of trying to use the razor-blade. “Mad or not, take no chances,” was the motto of his two guards, and when on top of everything else, though he hadn’t made a sound, they crammed a handkerchief half-down his throat, he almost laughed.

He judged they had been going for about an hour, when the diminished speed of the car and the increased sounds of traffic indicated a town. It felt as if they were travelling over cobbles, and once they stopped at what was evidently a level crossing, for he heard a train go by. And then came the sound of a steamer’s siren, to be followed by another and yet a third.

A seaport town obviously, he reflected, though that didn’t help much. The only comfort was that a seaport town meant a well-used waterway outside. And if he could get free, if he could go overboard with the Professor, there might be a shade more of a chance of being picked up. Also there would almost certainly be curious loungers about as they were carried on board.

The car had stopped; he could hear the driver talking to someone. Then it ran forward a little and stopped again. And a moment or two later a curious swaying motion almost pitched him off the bunk. Surely they couldn’t be at sea yet. The car dropped suddenly, and with a sick feeling of despair he realised what had happened. The car had been hoisted bodily on board; his faint hope of being able to communicate with some onlooker had gone.

Once again the car became stationary, save for a very faint and almost imperceptible movement. From outside came the sounds of men heaving on ropes, and the car steadied again. They were actually on board, and the car was being made fast.

Still the two men sat there with the doors tight shut, and the windows hermetically sealed by the blinds of them. They seemed to be waiting for something, and suddenly, with a sigh of relief, one spoke.

“She’s off.”

It was true: Drummond could feel the faint throb of the propeller.

“The specimens are aboard,” laughed the other man, “and I guess it will be safe to open the doors in about a quarter of an hour or so, and get a bit of air. This damned thing is like a Turkish bath.”

He rose and peered cautiously through a slit in the curtain, but he made no movement to open the door until the throbbing of the propeller had ceased, and the harsh rattle of a chain showed that they were anchoring. Then and not till then did he open the doors with a sigh of relief.

Cautiously Drummond raised his head, and stared out. Where were they? He had followed every movement in his mind since he had come on board, but he was still as far as ever from knowing where they were. And luckily one glance was enough. It didn’t even need the glimpse he got of a huge Cunarder about a half-mile away: he recognised the shore. They were in Southampton Water, and though the knowledge didn’t seem to help very much, at any rate it was something to have one definite fact to start from.

Southampton Water! He managed to shift the sodden pocket-handkerchief into a more comfortable position, and his train of thought grew pessimistic. Why would men invent processes for making diamonds? he reflected morosely. If only the dear old blitherer still peacefully sleeping in the opposite bunk had stuck to albumenised food, he wouldn’t have been lying trussed up like a Christmas turkey, Far from it: he would have been disporting himself on Ted Jerningham’s governor’s yacht at Cowes. Had not Ted expressly invited him⁠—Ted, who had hunted Peterson with him in the past, and asked for nothing better than to hunt him again?

The irony of it! To think that Ted might even see the yacht go by; might remark on the benevolence of the appearance of mutton-chop whiskers, if by chance he should be on deck. And he would never know. In all ignorance he would return to one of his habitual spasms of love, which always assailed him when afloat, with anyone who happened to be handy.

It was a distressing thought, and, after a while, he resolutely tried to banish it from his mind. But it refused to be banished. Absurd, of course, but suppose⁠—just suppose he could communicate with Ted. Things were so desperate that he could not afford to neglect even the wildest chance. Ted’s father’s yacht generally lay, as he knew, not far from the outgoing waterway; he remembered sitting on deck with Phyllis and watching an Union Castle boat go by so close that he could see the passengers’ faces on deck. What if he could shout or something? But Ted might not be on deck.

Eagerly he turned the problem over in his mind, and the more he thought of it the more it seemed to him to be the only possible way out. How to do it, he hadn’t an idea⁠—but at any rate it was something to occupy his thoughts. And when the benevolent face of Mr. Robinson appeared at the door some hours later, he was still wrestling with the problem, though the vacant look in his eyes left nothing to be desired.

“Any difficulty getting on board?” asked Mr. Robinson.

“None at all, boss,” answered the man who was still on guard. “We gagged the madman to be on the safe side.”

Mr. Robinson beamed.

“Take the old man below,” he remarked. “He’ll be coming round soon. I will stay with our friend here till you return.”

Thoughtfully he pulled the handkerchief out of Drummond’s mouth and sat down on the opposite bunk.

“Still suffering from concussion,” he said gently. “Still, we have plenty of time, Captain Drummond⁠—plenty of time.”

“Gug-gug,” answered Drummond happily.

“Precisely,” murmured the other. “I believe that men frequently say that when they drown. But I promise you we won’t drown you at once. As I say⁠—there is plenty of time.”