Still smiling benevolently, Mr. Robinson strolled away, and shortly afterwards a series of sharp orders followed by a faint throbbing announced that the voyage of the S.Y. Gadfly had commenced. The Cunarder receded into the distance, and still Drummond lay on the bunk wrestling with the problem of what to do. He judged the time as being about six, so they would pass Ted Jerningham’s yacht in daylight.

Apparently no guard was considered necessary for him now that the yacht was under way; after all, to watch a completely bound madman is a boring and uninteresting pastime. And with a feeling of impotent rage Drummond realised how easy it would be to cut the ropes and go quietly overboard. A swim of a mile or so meant nothing to him. If only it hadn’t been for the Professor!⁠ ⁠…

No; the last hope⁠—the only hope⁠—lay in Ted Jerningham. Once that failed, it seemed to Drummond that nothing could save them. And it was perfectly clear that by no possibility could he hope to communicate with Ted from his present position. He must be free to use his limbs. And during the next ten minutes he discovered that the blade of a safety-razor is an unpleasant implement with which to cut half-inch rope, especially when one’s wrists are bound.

But at last it was done, and he was free. No one had interrupted him, though once some footsteps outside had made him sweat with fear. But he was still no nearer to the solution of the problem. At any moment someone might come in and find him, and there would be no mistake about binding him the second time. Moreover, it would prove fairly conclusively that he was not as mad as he pretended.

Quickly he arranged the ropes with the cut ends underneath, so that to a cursory glance they appeared intact. Then he again lay still. That the glance would have to be very cursory for anyone to be deceived he realised, but it was the best he could do. And anyway he was free, even if only for the time. If the worst came to the worst he had no doubt as to his ability to fight his way to the side and go overboard; gun work is impossible in Southampton Water. But unless he did it near another ship, he feared that the delay before he could do anything would be fatal to the Professor. Peterson would take no chances in this case; he would murder the old man out of hand, instead of postponing the event.

And then, suddenly, came the idea⁠—Ted’s motorboat. How it was going to help he didn’t see; he had no coherent plan. But with a sort of subconscious certainty he felt that in Ted’s motorboat lay the key to the problem. She was a wonderful machine, capable of doing her forty knots with ease, and she was the darling of Ted’s heart. Her method of progress in the slightest swell resembled a continuous rush down the water-chute at Earl’s Court; and her owner was wont to take whoever occupied his heart for the moment for what he termed “a bit of a breather” on most evenings after dinner.

Ted’s motorboat was their hope, he decided; but how? How to get at Ted, how to tell him, was the problem. Methodically he thought things out; now that he had something definite in his mind to go on, his brain was cool and collected. And it seemed to him that the only way would be to go overboard as they passed Ted’s yacht, and then follow the Gadfly at once while she was still close to land. There would be men on Ted’s yacht, and they could board the Gadfly and hold her up. That there were difficulties he realised. It meant leaving the Professor for at least an hour even under the most favourable conditions. Further it would be getting dark when they overtook the Gadfly, and to board a yacht steaming her twelve to fifteen knots is not a simple matter when the crew of the yacht do not desire your presence, and await you with marlinespikes on deck. Besides, the guests on Ted’s yacht might feel that as an evening’s amusement “hunt the slipper” won on points. Still, it seemed the only chance, and he decided on it unless something better turned up. Anyway, it was a plan with a chance of success, which was something.

He glanced through the open door to try to spot his position, and estimated that another half-hour at the rate they were going would just about bring them opposite Ted’s yacht. Still no one came near him, though periodically he could see one of the sailors moving about the deck. As far as he could tell, he had been slung just aft of the funnel, though he dared not raise himself too much for fear of being seen.

The minutes passed, and his hopes began to rise. Could it be that luck was going to be on his side? Could it be that no one would come, and, that in the failing light he might be able to slip over the side unperceived? If so, he might gain an invaluable half-hour; more⁠—he might be able to get the motorboat alongside the Gadfly later without the crew suspecting anything. It seemed too good to be true, and yet a quarter of an hour, twenty minutes, passed, and he was still alone.

He peered out again; they were getting very close. The deck was deserted, and suddenly he felt he could bear the strain no longer. He rose from the bunk and cautiously peered out of the door. And the sight he saw almost staggered him with his good fortune. If he had been walking about the deck instead of being cooped up under cover he could not have timed it more exactly. Not a hundred yards away to port lay Jerningham’s yacht, with the motorboat alongside the gangway.

Drummond glanced round; he could see no one. The structure in which he had been hoisted on board effectively screened him from the bridge; the sailors were apparently having their evening meal. And taking a quick breath he prepared to make a sprint for the side when he saw something which completely altered his plans. Leaning over the side of the yacht he was watching were a man and a woman. And the man was Ted Jerningham himself.

Drummond saw him focus a pair of field-glasses and turn them on the Gadfly. And then clear and distinct across the water he heard the amazed shout of “Hugh.” Jerningham had seen him; the supreme chance had come, if only he wasn’t interrupted. And it is safe to say that during the next minute a very astonished girl stood beside a man whom she almost failed to recognise as the Ted Jerningham of normal life.

“A pencil,” he snapped. “Write as I spell out. Get a move on. Look out: he’s beginning. D.A.N.G.E.R. F.O.L.L.O.W. I.N. M.O.T.O.R. B.O.A.T. P.E.T.E.R.S.O.N. U.R.G.E.N.T. That’s all.”

She looked up: the huge man on board the passing yacht who had been standing outlined against the sky waving his arms had disappeared.

“What on earth was he doing?” she cried.

“Semaphoring,” answered Jerningham briefly.

“But I don’t understand,” she said.

“Nor do I,” returned her companion. “But that was Hugh Drummond. And what Hugh says⁠—goes, if we follow for the whole night. Coming?”

“Rather. Who’s Peterson?”

“A very dear old friend,” said Jerningham with a grim smile. “But how the deuce⁠ ⁠…” He broke off, and stared after the retreating yacht. “He loves me, because I emptied the entire sauce-boat over his shirtfront one night in Paris, when disguised as a waiter at the Ritz.”

“My dear Ted, are you mad?” laughed the girl, following him down the gangway into the waiting motorboat.

“Oh! no⁠—just fun and laughter. You wouldn’t believe what a humorist old man Peterson is.”

A terrific explosion rent the air, followed by a cloud of blue exhaust smoke, and Jerningham took the tiller.

“Warm enough, Pat?” he asked. “It may be a long show.”

“Quite, thanks,” she answered. “Ted, why do you look so grave?”

“I’m just wondering, my dear, if I ought to take you.” His hand was still on the gangway, and he looked at her irresolutely.

“Why on earth not?”

“Because there may be very grave danger.”

The girl laughed.

“Get on with it while the going’s good,” she said. “That yacht will be past the Needles if you delay much longer.”

And so it came about that Drummond, watching feverishly from his bunk in the Gadfly, saw with a sigh of intense relief the motorboat shoot out across the water. It was nearly a mile astern, but a mile was nothing to a boat of its great speed. Moreover, the distance was lessening, and he breathed a prayer that Ted wouldn’t come too close. With the amount of traffic round and about Cowes at that time of year an odd motorboat could raise no suspicion, but if he settled down to follow steadily at a hundred yards or so astern he would be bound to draw attention to himself.

He had not dared to send a longer message, and, of necessity, it had left a good deal to Ted’s imagination. But of all the men who had followed him unhesitatingly in the past, Ted Jerningham had been always the quickest on the uptake, and he soon saw that his confidence had not been misplaced. Ted had evidently realised that to follow steadily would arouse suspicion, and was laying his plans accordingly. He overhauled them like an express train, passed forty yards to starboard, circled across their bow, and came dashing back. Then away at a tangent for half a mile or so, only to shoot back and stop apparently with engine trouble.

The sea was like a millpond, and as the Gadfly passed the now silent motorboat the sounds of a gramophone were plainly audible from it. Obviously someone with a racing motorboat joyriding with a girl, reflected the skipper as he paced the bridge; and forthwith dismissed the matter from his mind. He had other more important things to think of, and the first was the exact object of this trip. That the benevolent Mr. Robinson had hired the Gadfly from its owner to take two invalids to Madeira he knew, but he wasn’t quite satisfied. The method of bringing the invalids on board had seemed so unnecessarily secretive. However, as is the way of men who go down to the sea in ships, his nature was not curious. He was there to carry out orders, and mind his own business⁠—not other people’s. Still, he couldn’t help wondering. And had he seen the occupation of one of those invalids at the moment he would have wondered still more. For Drummond, having found a cake of soap on the basin beside his bunk, was carefully cutting it into small cubes with the blade of a safety-razor. Though perhaps that is what one would expect from a madman.

A sudden hoarse scream of fear some five minutes later made the Captain jump to the side of the bridge. Two sailors were rushing along the deck as if pursued by the devil, and he roared an order at them. But they took no notice of him, and dashed below. For a moment the worthy skipper stood there dumbfounded; then, cursing fluently, he dashed after them, only to stop with a strange pricking feeling in his scalp as a huge and ghastly figure confronted him. A great mass of foam was round its mouth, and it was brandishing a marline spike and bellowing. A terrifying spectacle in the half-light of dusk⁠—a spectacle to put the fear of God into any man. And then as suddenly as it appeared it was gone.

Terror is an infectious thing, and the infection spread in the good ship Gadfly. Within two minutes men were running in all directions, shouting that a homicidal maniac was loose on board. Below an appalling crash of breaking crockery and the sudden appearance on deck of a terrified steward told its own tale. The Captain was powerless; things had gone beyond him. He roared a futile order or two: no one paid the slightest attention to him. And then, quite suddenly, the pandemonium ceased⁠—and men held their breath. How he had got there no one could say⁠—but they all saw him outlined against the darkening sky.

The madman was in the stern, and in his arms he held the body of a man.

“At last,” they heard him shout, “at last I’ve got you, Peterson. We die together⁠—you devil⁠ ⁠…”

“Stop them,” howled Mr. Robinson, who had just dashed on deck, holding a limp right arm; but no man moved. Only a loud splash broke the silence, and the stern was empty.

“Man overboard. Lower a boat. Stop the yacht, you cursed fool,” snarled Mr. Robinson to the Captain, and then he rushed to the stern. Dimly in the failing light he thought he could see two heads in the water, but it was a couple of minutes before a boat was lowered, and in that couple of minutes he heard the roar of an engine coming nearer. Then the engine ceased, and he saw the outline of a motorboat.

“That boat may have picked ’em up, sir,” said the Captain, as Mr. Robinson ran down the gangway into the waiting cutter.

“Give way all,” came the second officer’s curt order. “With a will, boys.”

The motorboat, still motionless, loomed rapidly up, and Mr. Robinson stood up.

“Ahoy there! Did you pick up those two men who fell overboard?”

“Two!” Ted Jerningham, a conspicuous figure in white flannels, stood up also. “I heard the most infernal shindy on board your yacht and then a splash. Do you mean to say two men have fallen overboard?”

The yacht’s boat was close to, the sailors resting on their oars.

“Yes. Have you seen ’em?” asked the second officer.

“Not a sign. And the water’s like a duck-pond too.”

The girl with him shuddered.

“How dreadful! You don’t mean the poor fellows are drowned?”

“Afraid it looks like it, miss,” said the officer, staring round the water. “Even in this light we’d see them with the sea as calm as it is.”

Mr. Robinson whispered something in his ear, which he seemed to resent.

“Do what you’re told,” snarled his master, and with a shrug he gave an order.

“Give way.”

The oars dipped into the water, and they passed astern of the motor boat. And had Mr. Robinson been watching Ted Jerningham instead of the water he might have seen a sudden strained look appear on that young gentleman’s face, and his hand move instinctively towards the starting-switch. He might even have wondered why the girl, who had seemed so calm and unperturbed in the face of this dreadful tragedy, should suddenly give vent to a loud and hysterical outburst.

“It’s dreadful,” she sobbed⁠—“too dreadful! To think of those two poor men being drowned like that.”

But Mr. Robinson was not concerned with the dreadfulness of the situation; all that mattered to him was whether it was true or not. From the moment when Drummond, foaming at the mouth, had dashed into the dining-saloon, Mr. Robinson’s brain had been working furiously. An attempt to intercept himself between Drummond and Professor Goodman had resulted in an appalling blow on his arm with a marline spike. And then, accustomed though he was to the rapidity of Drummond’s movements, even he for a few seconds had been nonplussed. There had been something so diabolical about this huge man, bellowing hoarsely, who had, after that first blow, paid no more attention to him, but had hurled himself straight on the dazed Professor. And even when the Professor, squealing like a rabbit, had dashed on deck with Drummond after him, for an appreciable time Mr. Robinson had remained staring stupidly at the door. Drummond sane was dangerous; Drummond mad was nerve-shattering. And then he had pulled himself together just in time to dash on deck and see them both go overboard.

Thoughtfully his eyes searched the water again; there was no trace of either man. Of a suspicious nature, he had examined both sides of the motorboat; moreover, he had seen inside the motorboat. And now as the girl’s sobs died away he turned to the officer beside him.

“There can be no doubt about it, I fear,” he remarked with a suitable inflection of sorrow in his voice.

“None, sir, I’m afraid. Even if we couldn’t see them, we could hear them. I’m afraid the madman’s done the poor old gentleman in.”

“Sink in a brace of shakes with a holy terror like that ’anging round yer neck,” said one of the sailors, and a mutter of agreement came from the others.

“Yes, I’m afraid there can be no possibility of saving them now.” Ted Jerningham took out his cigarette-case, only to replace it hurriedly as he remembered the dreadful tragedy they had just witnessed. “Doubtless, however, their bodies will be washed ashore in time.”

“Er⁠—doubtless,” murmured Mr. Robinson. That aspect of the case had already struck him, and had not pleased him in the slightest degree. Had he been able to conform with his original plan, neither body would have ever been seen again. However, he had not been able to conform to that plan, so there was no more to be said about it. The main point was that both of them were drowned.

“Doubtless,” he repeated. “Poor fellows!⁠—poor fellows! Two neurasthenic patients of mine, sir.⁠ ⁠… How sad!⁠—How terribly sad! However, I fear there is no good wasting any more time. I can only thank you for your prompt assistance, and regret that, through no fault of yours, it was not more effective.”

Jerningham bowed.

“Don’t mention it, sir⁠—don’t mention it,” he murmured. “But I think, as I can do no more, that I will now get back. The tragedy, as you will understand, has somewhat upset this lady.”

He put his finger on the starting-switch, and the quiet of the night was broken by the roar of the engine. And as the sailors dipped in their oars to row back to the yacht, the motorboat circled slowly round.

“Good night, sir.” Mr. Robinson waved a courteous hand. “And again a thousand thanks.”

“And again don’t mention it,” returned Jerningham, sitting down by the tiller. “You can take your wrap off his hand now, Pat,” he whispered. “They can’t see.”

A vast hand grasping the gunwale was revealed as she did so, and an agonised whisper came from the water.

“Hurry, old man, for the love of Pete. Unless we can hold the old man upside-down soon to drain the water out of him, he’ll drown.”

“Right-oh! Hugh. Can you hold on for a couple of hundred yards. I’ll go slow. But they may have a searchlight on the yacht, and we’re still very close to her.”

“All right, Ted. I leave it to you.”

“I’ll still keep broadside on, old man; though I don’t think he had any suspicions.”

He nosed the motorboat through the water, and a few moments later the necessity of his precaution was justified. A blinding light flickered across the water, found them, and held steady: it was the Gadfly’s searchlight. Jerningham rose and waved his hand, and after a while the beam passed on searching the sea. One final attempt evidently to try to spot the victims of the tragedy, rewarded by empty water. And at last the light went out; all hope had been abandoned.

“Quick, Hugh,” cried Jerningham. “Get the old boy on board.”

With a heave the almost unconscious form of Professor Goodman was hoisted into the boat, to be followed immediately by Drummond himself.

“Lie down, old man⁠—lie down in case they use that searchlight again.”

The engine roared and spluttered, and two black mountains of water swirled past the bows.

“Forty-five on her head, Hugh,” shouted Ted. “Incidentally, what’s this particular brand of round game?”

“The largest drink in the shortest time, old son,” laughed the other. “And for the Professor⁠—bed, quick.”

He turned to the girl.

“My dear soul,” he said, “you were magnificent. If you hadn’t had hysteria when I began to sneeze it was all up.”

“But what could he have done?” cried the girl “And he looked such a nice old man.”

Drummond laughed grimly.

“Did you recognise him, Ted?” Once again he turned to the girl. “If he’d known that we were in the water, that nice old man would have had no more compunction in shooting you and Ted and dropping your bodies overboard than I shall have in drinking that drink. It’s been the biggest coup of his life, Ted⁠—but it’s failed. But, by Jove, old man, it’s been touch and go, believe me.”

The roar of the engine made conversation difficult, and after covering the dripping form of the Professor with a dry rug they fell silent. Astern the lights of the Gadfly were growing fainter and fainter in the distance; ahead lay Cowes and safety. But Drummond’s mind, now that the immediate danger was over, had jumped ahead to the future. To restore the Professor to the bosom of his family was obviously the first thing to be done; but⁠—after that?

The engine ceased abruptly, and he realised they had reached the yacht. Leaning over the side were some of the guests, and as he and Ted lifted the body of the Professor up the gangway a chorus of excited questioning broke out, a chorus which was interrupted by the amazed ejaculation of an elderly man.

“God bless my soul,” he cried incredulously, as the light fell on the Professor’s face, “it’s old Goodman’s double!”

“Not exactly,” answered Drummond. “It’s Professor Goodman himself.”

“Damme, sir,” spluttered the other, “I was at his funeral a week ago. He was blown up in his house in Hampstead doing some fool experiment.”

“So we all thought,” remarked Drummond quietly. “And as it happened we thought wrong. Get him below, Ted⁠—and get him to bed, or we really shall be attending his funeral. He’s swallowed most of the English Channel as it is. Though I can assure you, sir,” he addressed the elderly man again, “that he possesses a vitality which turns Kruschen salts a pale pink. Within the last week he’s been blown up; his remains, consisting of one boot, have been buried; he’s been bounced on a white-hot electric furnace to keep his circulation going; he’s had his breakfast doped; and last, but not least, he’s gone backwards and forwards under Ted’s motorboat. And now if someone will lead me to a whisky-and-soda of vast dimensions, I’ll⁠—My God! what’s that?”

It was very faint, like the boom of a distant heavy gun, but he happened to be looking towards the Needles. And he had seen a sudden deep orange flash, in the water against the sky⁠—the flash such as in old days an aeroplane bomb had made on bursting. The others swung round and stared seawards, but there was nothing more to be seen.

“It sounded like a shell,” said one of the men, “What did you think it was?”

He turned to Drummond, but he had disappeared, only to dash on deck a moment or two, later with Ted behind him.

“Every ounce you can get out of her, Ted. Rip her to pieces if necessary⁠—but get there. That infernal devil has blown up the yacht.”

The motorboat spun round, and like a living beast gathered speed. The bow waves rose higher and higher, till they stood four feet above the gunwales, to fall away astern into a mass of seething white.

“I’ll never forgive myself,” shouted Drummond in Ted’s ear. “I knew he was going to blow her up, but I never thought he’d do it so soon.”

Quivering like a thing possessed, the boat rushed towards the scene of the explosion. The speedometer needle touched⁠—went back⁠—touched again⁠—and then remained steady at fifty.

“Go to the bows,” howled Ted. “Wreckage.”

With a nod Drummond scrambled forward, and lying between the two black walls of water, he slowly swung the headlight backwards and forwards over the sea in front. To hit a piece of floating wreckage at the speed they were travelling would have ripped them open from stem to stern. Other craft attracted to the spot loomed up and dropped back as if stationary, and then suddenly Drummond held up his hand. In front was a large dark object with two or three men clinging to it, and as he focused the headlight on them he could see them waving. The roar of the engine died away, and timing it perfectly Jerningham went full speed astern.

The thing in the water was one of the large wooden lockers used for storing life-belts, and they drew alongside just in time. It was waterlogged, and the weight of the men clinging to it was more than it could stand. Even as the last of them stepped into the boat, with a sullen splash the locker turned over and drifted away only just awash.

“Yer’d better mind out,” said one of the men. “There’s a lot of that about.”

“Go slow, Ted,” cried Drummond. Then he turned to the men. “What happened?”

“Strike me pink, governor, I’m damned if I know. We’ve had a wonderful trip, we ’ave⁠—you can take my word. Fust a ruddy madman jumps overboard with another bloke⁠—and they both drowns. Then half an hour later there comes the devil of an explosion from below; the ’ole deck goes sky ’igh, and the skipper he yells, ‘We’re sinking.’ It didn’t require for ’im to say that; we all knew we was. We ’eeled right over, and in ’alf a minute she sank.”

“Anybody else saved?” asked Drummond.

“I dunno, governor,” answered the man. “There wasn’t no women and children on board, so I reckons it was everyone for himself.”

“Any idea what caused the explosion?”

“I ’aven’t, governor⁠—that’s strite. But I knew as no good was a-going to come of this trip, as soon as that there madman went and drowned hisself.”

Drummond stared silently ahead. In the dim light he had no fear of being recognised, even if any of the three men they had saved had seen him. And his mind was busy. He had not the slightest doubt that Peterson had caused the explosion; he had even less doubt that Peterson, at any rate, was not drowned. But why had he taken the appalling risk of doing such a thing in so populous a waterway?

He went back to the stern and sat down beside Ted, who was nosing the boat gently through the water. Masses of debris surrounded them, and it was necessary to move with the utmost caution.

“What made him risk it here, Ted?” he whispered.

“Obvious, old man,” returned the other in a low voice. “He thought your bodies would be washed ashore; he had no means of telling when. He knew they would be identified; he further knew, that I would at once say what had happened. From that moment he would be in deadly danger; wireless would put every ship at sea wise. And to do a little stunt of this sort, if he was to escape it was imperative he should be near land. So, as Peterson would do, he didn’t hesitate for a moment, but put the job through at once.”

Drummond nodded thoughtfully.

“You’re right, Ted⁠—perfectly right.”

“And unless I’m very much surprised, our friend at the present moment is stepping out of his life-belt somewhere on the beach in Colwell Bay. Tomorrow, I should imagine, he will cross to Lymington⁠—and after that you possibly know what his moves will be. I certainly don’t⁠—for I’m completely in the dark over the whole stunt.”

“It’s too long a story to tell you now, old man,” said Drummond. “But one thing I do know. Whoever else may be picked up, our friend will not be amongst the survivors. He’s run unheard-of risks to pull this thing off, including a cold-blooded murder. And now officially he’s going to die himself in order to throw everyone off the scent.” He laughed grimly. “Moreover, he’d have done what he set out to do if you hadn’t been leaning over the side of your governor’s yacht.”

“But what’s the prize this time?”

“Old Goodman’s secret for making artificial diamonds⁠—that was the prize, and Peterson has got it.”

Ted whistled softly.

“I heard something about it from Algy,” he remarked. “But it seems to me, Hugh, that if that is the case, he’s won.”

Drummond laughed.

“You were a bit surprised, Ted, when I refused to allow you to pull us on board your boat. Of course I knew as well as you did that with your speed we could have got clean away from them. But don’t you see, old man, the folly of doing so? He would have spotted at once that we were not drowned; he would further have spotted that I was not as mad as I made out. Chawing soap is the hell of a game,” he added inconsequently. Then he went on again, emphasising each point on his fingers.

“Get me so far? Once he knew we were alive, it would have necessitated a complete alteration of his plans. He’d probably have put straight into some place on the south coast; gone ashore himself and never returned. And then he’d have disappeared into the blue. Maybe he’d have had another shot at murdering old Goodman; however, that point doesn’t arise. The thing is he’d have disappeared.”

“Which is what he seems to have done now,” remarked Ted.

Again Drummond laughed.

“But I think I know where he’ll turn up again. In what form or guise remains to be seen: our one and only Carl is never monotonous, to give him his due. You see, Ted, you don’t seem to realise the intense advantage of being dead. I didn’t till I heard him discussing it one night in his study. And now I’m dead, and the Professor’s dead, and dear Carl is dead. That’s why I bumped the poor old man’s head on the barnacles underneath your boat, as we changed sides. It’s a gorgeous situation.”

“Doubtless, old man,” murmured the other. “Though you must remember it’s all a little dark and confusing to me. And anyway, where do you think he’ll turn up again so that you can recognise him?”

“My dear man, our little Irma, or Janet, or whatever name the sweet thing is masquerading under this time, is a powerful magnet. And I am open to a small bet that at the moment she is taking the air in Switzerland: Montreux to be exact. What more natural, then, that believing himself perfectly safe, our one and only Carl will return to the arms of his lady⁠—if only for a time.”

“And you propose to fly there also?”

“Exactly. I want the notes of that process, and I also want a final reckoning with the gentleman.”

“Final?” said Ted, glancing at Drummond thoughtfully.

“Definitely final,” answered Drummond quietly. “This time our friend has gone too far.”

Jerningham looked at the numerous other boats which, by this time, had arrived at the scene of the disaster. Then he swung his helm hard round.

“That being so,” he remarked, “since our presence is no longer needed here, I suggest that we get a move on. From my knowledge of Montreux, old man, it is getting uncomfortably hot just now. Deauville will be more in Irma’s line. If I were you, I’d get out there, and do it quick. Joking apart, you may be right and, of course, I don’t know all the facts of the case. But from what I’ve guessed, I think friend Peterson will cover all his tracks at the first possible moment.”

“He may,” agreed Drummond. “And yet⁠—believing that the Professor and I are both dead⁠—he may not. You see,” he repeated once again, “he thinks he’s safe. Therein lies the maggot in the Stilton.”

With which profound simile he relapsed into silence, only broken as once more the boat drew up alongside the yacht.

“He thinks he’s safe, which is where he goes into the mulligatawny up to his neck. Put these fellows on shore, Ted, give me a change of clothes, and then run me over to Lymington.”