I was still engaged in this interesting occupation when the train ran into Tilbury station. Without waiting for a porter I collected my various belongings, and stepped out on to the platform.

McMurtrie had told me in his letter that he would arrange for some one to meet me; and looking round I caught sight of a burly red-faced gentleman in a tight jacket and a battered straw hat, sullenly eyeing the various passengers who had alighted. I walked straight up to him.

"Are you waiting for me—Mr. James Nicholson?" I asked.

He looked me up and down in a kind of familiar fashion that distinctly failed to appeal to me.

"That's right," he said. Then as a sort of afterthought he added, "I gotter trap outside."

"Have you?" I said. "I've got a couple of bags inside, so you'd better come and catch hold of one of them."

His unpleasantly red face grew even redder, and for a moment he seemed to meditate some spirited answer. Then apparently he thought better of it, and slouching after me up the platform, possessed himself of the larger and heavier of my two bags, which I had carefully left for him.

The trap proved to be a ramshackle affair with an ill-kept but powerful-looking horse between the shafts. I climbed up, and as I took my seat I observed to my companion that I wished first of all to call at the post-office.

"I dunno nothin' 'bout that," he grunted, flicking his whip. "My orders was to drive you to Warren's Copse."

"I don't care in the least what your orders were," I answered. "You can either go to the post-office or else you can go to the Devil. There are plenty of other traps in Tilbury."

He was evidently unused to this crisp style of dialogue, for after glaring at me for a moment in a sort of apoplectic amazement he jerked his horse round and proceeded slowly down the street.

"'Ave it yer own way," he muttered.

"I intend to," I said cheerfully.

We pulled up at the post-office, a large red-brick building in the main street, and leaving my disgruntled friend sitting in the trap, I jumped out and pushed open the swing door. Except for an intelligent-looking clerk behind the counter the place was empty.

"Good-morning," I said. "I wonder if you could help me out of a slight difficulty about my letters?"

"What sort of a difficulty?" he inquired civilly.

"Well, for the next week or two," I said, "I shall be living in a little hut on the marshes about two miles to the east from here, and quite close to the sea-wall. I am making a few chemical experiments in connection with photography" (a most useful lie this), "and I've told my friends to write or send telegrams here—to the post-office. I wondered, if anything should come for me, whether you had a special messenger or any one who could bring it over. I would be delighted to pay him his proper fee and give him something extra for his trouble. My name is Nicholson—Mr. James Nicholson."

The man hesitated for a moment. "I don't think there will be any difficulty about that—not if you leave written instructions. I shall have to ask the postmaster when he comes in, but I'm pretty certain it will be all right."

I thanked him, and after writing out exactly what I wanted done, I returned to my friend in the trap, who, to judge from his expression, did not appear to have benefited appreciably from my little lesson in patience and politeness. Under the circumstances I decided to extend it.

"I am going across the street to get some things I want," I observed. "You can wait here."

He made an unpleasant sound in his throat, which I think he intended for an ironical laugh. "Wot you want's a bus," he remarked; "a bus an' a bell an' a ruddy conductor."

I came quite close and looked up into his face, smiling. "What you want," I said quietly, "is a damned good thrashing, and if I have any more of your insolence I'll pull you down out of the trap and give you one."

I think something in my voice must have told him I was speaking the literal truth, for although his mouth opened convulsively it closed again without any audible response.

I strolled serenely across the road to where I saw an "Off-Licence." I had acted in an indiscreet fashion, but whatever happened I was determined to put up with no further rudeness from anybody. I had had all the discourtesy I required during my three years in Princetown.

My purchases at the Off-Licence consisted of three bottles of whisky and two more of some rather obscure brand of champagne. It was possible, of course, that McMurtrie's ideas of catering included such luxuries, but there seemed no reason for running any unnecessary risk. As a prospective host it was clearly my duty to take every reasonable precaution.

Armed with my spoils I returned to the trap, and stored them away carefully beneath the seat. Then I climbed up alongside the driver.

"Now you can go to Warren's Copse," I said; and without making any reply the tomato-faced gentleman jerked round his horse's head, and back we went up the street.

I can't say it was exactly an hilarious drive. I felt cheerful enough myself, but my companion maintained a depressed and lowering silence, broken only by an occasional inward grunt, or a muttered curse at the horse. It struck me as curious and not a little sinister that McMurtrie should be employing such an uncouth ruffian, but I supposed that he had some sound reason for his choice. I couldn't imagine McMurtrie doing anything without a fairly sound reason.

Within about ten minutes of leaving the town, we came out on to the main road that bounded the landward side of the marshes. I caught sight of my future home looking very small and desolate against the long stretch of sea-wall, and far in the distance I could just discern the mast of the Betty still tapering up above the bank of the creek. It was comforting to know that so far at all events Mr. Gow had neither sunk her nor pawned her.

Warren's Copse proved to be the small clump of trees that I had noticed on the previous day, and my driver pulled up there and jerked the butt of his whip in the direction of the hut.

"There y'are," he said. "We can't get no nearer than this."

There was a good distance to walk across the marsh, and for a moment I wondered whether to insist upon his getting out and carrying one of my bags, I decided, however, that I had had quite enough of the surly brute's company, so jumping down, I took out my belongings, and told him that he was at liberty to depart.

He drove off without a word, but he had not gone more than about thirty yards when he suddenly turned in his seat and called out a parting observation.

"I ain't afraid o' you—you—'ulkin' bully!" he shouted; "an' don't you think it neither."

Then, whipping up the horse, he broke into a smart canter, and disappeared round a bend in the road.

When I had done laughing, I shoved a bottle into each side pocket, and stowed away the other three in the emptier of my two bags. The latter were no light weight to lug along, and by the time I had covered the half-mile of marsh that separated me from the hut I had come to the conclusion that the profession of a railway porter was one that I should never adopt as a private hobby.

As soon as I unlocked the door, I saw that I had not been far wrong in my guess about a caretaker on the previous afternoon. Some one, at all events, had been there in the interval, for the pile of cooking and eating utensils were now arranged on a rough shelf at the back, while the box which I had noticed had been unpacked and its contents set out on the kitchen table.

I glanced over them with some interest. There were packets of tea and sugar, several loaves of bread, and a number of gaily-coloured tins, containing such luxuries as corned beef, condensed milk, tongue, potted meat, and golden syrup. Except for the tea, however, there seemed to be a regrettable dearth of liquid refreshments, and I mentally thanked Providence for my happy inspiration with regard to the Off-Licence.

I pottered about a bit, unpacking my own belongings, and putting things straight generally. As I seemed likely to be spending some time in the place, I thought I might as well make everything as comfortable and tidy as possible to start with; and, thanks to my combined experience of small boats and prison cells, I flatter myself I made rather a good job of it.

By the time I had finished I was feeling distinctly hungry. I opened one of the tongues, and with the additional aid of bread and whisky made a simple but satisfying lunch. Then I sat down on the bed and treated myself to a pipe before going across to the shed to start work. Smoking in business hours is one of those agreeable luxuries which an inventor of high explosives finds it healthier to deny himself.

I could see no sign of any one about when I went outside. Except for a few gulls, which were wheeling backwards and forwards over the sea-wall, I seemed to have the whole stretch of marsh and saltings entirely to myself. Some people, I suppose, would have found the prospect a depressing one, but I was very far from sharing any such opinion. I like marsh scenery, and for the present at all events I was fully able to appreciate the charms which sages of all times are reported to have discovered in solitude.

I shall never forget the feeling of satisfaction with which I closed the door of the shed behind me and looked round its clean, well-lighted interior. A careful examination soon showed me that McMurtrie's share in the work had been done as thoroughly and conscientiously as I had imagined from my brief inspection on the previous day. Everything I had asked for was lying there in readiness, and, much as I disliked and mistrusted the doctor, it was not without a genuine sensation of gratitude that I hung up my coat and proceeded to set to work.

Briefly speaking, my new discovery was an improvement on the famous C. powder, invented by Lemartre. It was derived from the aromatic series of nitrates (which that great scientist always insisted to be the correct basis for stable and powerful explosives), but it owed its enormously increased force to a fresh constituent, the introduction of which was entirely my own idea. I had been working at it for about nine months before my arrest, and after several disappointing failures I had just succeeded in achieving what I believed to be my object, when my experiments had been so unkindly interrupted.

Still, all that remained now was comparatively clear sailing. I had merely to follow out my former process, and I had taken care to order the various ingredients in as fully prepared a state as possible for immediate use. I had also taken care to include one or two other articles, which as a matter of fact had nothing on earth to do with the business in hand. It was just as well, I felt, to obscure matters a trifle, in case any inquiring mind might attempt to investigate my secret.

For hour after hour I worked on, sorting out my various chemicals, and preparing such methods of treatment as were necessary in each case. I was so interested in my task that I paid no attention at all to the time, until with something of a shock I suddenly realized that the light was beginning to fail. Looking at my watch I found that it was nearly half-past seven.

There was still a certain amount to do before I could knock off, so, stopping for a moment to mix myself a well-earned whisky-and-water, I switched on the two electric head-lights which McMurtrie had provided as a means of illumination. With the aid of these I continued my labours for perhaps another hour and a half, at the end of which time I began to feel that a little rest and refreshment would be an agreeable variation in the programme.

After making sure that everything was safe, I turned out the lights, and locking up the door, walked back to the hut. I was just entering, when it suddenly struck me that instead of dining in solitary state off tongue and bread, I might just as well stroll over to the Betty and take my evening repast in the engaging company of Mr. Gow.

No sooner had this excellent idea entered my head than I decided to put it into practice. The moon was out, and there appeared to be enough light to see my way by the old route along the river shore, so, walking down to the sea-wall, I climbed over, and set off in the direction of the creek.

It was tricky sort of work, with fine possibilities of spraining one's ankle about it, but by dint of "going delicately," like Agag, I managed to reach the end of my journey without disaster. As I rounded the bend I saw the Betty lying out in mid-stream, bathed in a most becoming flood of moonlight. A closer observation showed me the head and shoulders of Mr. Gow protruding from the fo'c's'le hatch.

He responded to my hail by scrambling up on deck and lowering himself into the dinghy, which with a few vigorous jerks he brought to the shore.

"I've come to have supper with you, Mr. Gow," I observed. "Have you got anything to eat?"

He touched his cap and nodded. "I says to meself it must be you, sir, d'rectly I heard you comin' round the crick. There ain't much comp'ny 'bout here at night-time."

"Nor in the daytime either," I added, pushing the boat off from the bank.

"And that's a fact, sir," he remarked, settling down to the oars. "There was one gent round here this morning askin' his way, but except for him we bin remarkable quiet."

"What sort of a gent?" I demanded with interest.

"Smallish, 'e was, sir, an' very civil spoken. Wanted to get to Tilbury."

"Did he ask who the boat belonged to, by any chance?"

Mr. Gow reflected for a moment. "Now you come to mention it, sir, I b'lieve 'e did. Not as I should have told 'im anything, even if I'd known. I don't hold with answerin' questions."

"You're quite right, Mr. Gow," I observed, catching hold of the stern of the Betty. "It's a habit that gets people into a lot of trouble—especially in the Law Courts."

We clambered on board, and while my companion made the dinghy fast, I went down into the cabin, and proceeded to rout out the lockers in search of provisions. I discovered a slab of pressed beef, and some rather stale bread and cheese, which I set out on the table, wondering to myself, as I did so, whether the inquisitive stranger of the morning was in any way connected with my affairs. It couldn't have been Latimer, for that gentleman was very far from being "smallish," a remark which applied equally well to our mutual friend with the scar. I was still pondering over the question when I heard Mr. Gow drop down into the fo'c's'le, and summond him through the connecting door to come and join the feast.

He accepted my invitation with some embarrassment, as became a "paid hand," but a bottle of Bass soon put him at his ease. We began by discussing various nautical topics, such as the relative merits of a centre-board or a keel for small boats, and whether whisky or beer was really the better drink when one was tired and wet through. It was not until we had finished our meal and were sitting outside enjoying our pipes that I broached the question that was at the back of my mind.

"Look here, Gow," I said abruptly, "were you speaking seriously when you suggested that launch ran you down on purpose?"

His face darkened, and then a curious look of slow cunning stole into it.

"Mebbe they did, and mebbe they didn't," he answered. "Anyway, I reckon they wouldn't have bin altogether sorry to see me at the bottom o' the river."

"But why?" I persisted. "What on earth have you been doing to them?"

Mr. Gow was silent for a moment. "'Tis like this, sir," he said at last. "Bein' about the river all times o' the day an' night, I see things as other people misses—things as per'aps it ain't too healthy to see."

"Well, what have you seen our pals doing?" I inquired.

"I don't say I seen 'em doin' nothin'—nothin' against the law, so to speak." He looked round cautiously. "All the same, sir," he added, lowering his voice, "it's my belief as they ain't livin' up there on Sheppey for no good purpose. Artists they calls 'emselves, but to my way o' thinking they're a sight more interested in forts an' ships an' suchlike than they are in pickchers and paintin'."

I looked at him steadily for a moment. There was no doubt that the man was in earnest.

"You think they're spies?" I said quietly.

He nodded his head. "That's it, sir. Spies—that's what they are; a couple o' dirty Dutch spies—damn 'em."

"Why don't you tell the police or the naval people?" I asked.

He laughed grimly. "They'd pay a lot of heed to the likes o' me, wouldn't they? You can lay them two fellers have got it all squared up fine and proper. Come to look into it, an' you'd find they was artists right enough; no, there wouldn't be no doubt about that. As like as not I'd get two years 'ard for perjurin' and blackmail."

To a certain extent I was in a position to sympathize with this point of view.

"Well, we must keep an eye on them ourselves," I said, "that's all. We can't have German spies running up and down the Thames as if they owned the blessed place." I got up and knocked out my pipe. "The first thing to do," I added, "is to summons them for sinking your boat. If they are spies, they'll pay up without a murmur, especially if they really tried to do it on purpose."

Mr. Gow nodded his head again, with a kind of vicious obstinacy. "They done it a-purpose all right," he repeated. "They seen me watching of 'em, and they knows that dead men tell no tales."

There scarcely seemed to me to be enough evidence for the certainty with which he cherished this opinion; but the mere possibility of its being a fact was sufficiently disturbing. Goodness knows, I didn't want to mix myself up in any further troubles, and yet, if these men were really German spies, and, in addition to that, sufficiently desperate to attempt a cold-blooded murder in order to cover up their traces, I had apparently let myself in for it with a vengeance.

Of course, if I liked, I could abandon Mr. Gow to pursue his claim without any assistance; but that was a solution which somehow or other failed to appeal to me. In a sense he had become my retainer; and we Lyndons are not given to deserting our retainers under any circumstances. At least, I shouldn't exactly have liked to face my father in another world with this particular weakness against my record.

Altogether it was in a far from serene state of mind that I climbed down into the dinghy, and allowed Mr. Gow to row me back to the bank.

"Will you be over tomorrow, sir?" he asked, as he stood up in the boat ready to push off.

"I don't think so, I shall be rather busy the next two or three days." Then I paused a moment. "Keep your eyes open generally, Mr. Gow," I added; "and if any more gentlemen who have lost their way to Tilbury come and ask you the name of the Betty's owner, tell them she belongs to the Bishop of London."

He touched his cap quite gravely. "Yessir," he said. "Good-night, sir."

"Good-night, Mr. Gow," I replied, and scrambling up the bank, I set off on my return journey.



CHAPTER XVIII

A NEW CLUE TO AN OLD CRIME

It was exactly half-past ten on Tuesday morning when I sat down on the rough wooden bench in my workshop with a little gasp of relief and exhaustion. Before me, on the lead slab, was a small pile of dark brown powder, which an innocent stranger would in all probability have taken for finely ground coffee. It was not coffee, however; it was the fruit of four days and nights of about the most unremitting toil that any human being has ever accomplished. Unless I was wrong—utterly and hopelessly wrong—I had enough of the new explosive in front of me to blow this particular bit of marsh and salting into the middle of next week.

I leaned forward, and picking up a fistful, allowed it to trickle slowly through my fingers. The stuff was quite safe to handle; that was one of its beauties. I could have put a lighted match to it or thrown it on the fire without the faintest risk; the only possible method of releasing its appalling power being the explosion of a few grains of gunpowder or dynamite in its immediate vicinity. I had no intention of allowing that interesting event to occur until I had made certain necessary preparations.

I was still contemplating my handiwork with a sort of fatigued pride, when a sudden sound outside attracted my attention. Getting up and looking through the shed window, I discovered a telegraph-boy standing by the hut, apparently engaged in hunting for the bell.

"All right, sonny," I called out. "Bring it along here."

I walked to the door, and the next minute I was being handed an envelope addressed to me at the Tilbury Post-Office in Joyce's handwriting.

"It came the last post yesterday," explained the lad. "We couldn't let you have it until this morning because there wasn't any one to send."

"Well, sit down a moment, Charles," I said; "and I'll just see if there's any answer."

He seated himself on the bench, staring round at everything with obvious interest. With a pleasant feeling of anticipation I slit open the envelope and pulled out its contents.

"CHELSEA,

"Monday.

"DEAREST JAMES,

"It looks rather nice written—doesn't it! I am coming down tomorrow by the train which gets into Tilbury at 2.15. I shall walk across to the Betty and sit there peacefully till you turn up. Whatever stage the work is at, don't be later than 7.30. I shall have supper ready by then—and it will be a supper worth eating. My poor darling, you must be simply starved. I've lots to tell you, James, but it will keep till tomorrow.

"With all my love,

"JOYCE."

I read this through (it was so like Joyce I could almost fancy I heard her speaking), and then I turned to the telegraph-boy, who was still occupied in taking stock of his surroundings.

"There's no answer, thank you, Charles," I said. "How much do I owe you?"

He pulled himself together abruptly. "It will be two shillings, the post-office fee, sir."

"Well, there it is," I said; "and there's another shilling for yourself."

He jumped up and pocketed the coins with an expression of gratitude. Then he paused irresolutely. "Beg pardon, sir," he observed, "but ain't you a gentleman who makes things?"

I laughed. "We most of us do that, Charles," I said, "if they're only mistakes."

He looked round the shed with an expression of slight awe. "Can you make fireworks?" he asked.

I glanced instinctively at the little heap of powder. "Of a kind," I admitted modestly. "Why?"

He gave an envious sigh. "I only wondered if it was hard, sir. I'd rather be able to make fireworks than do anything."

"It's not very hard," I said consolingly. "You go on bringing my letters and telegrams for me like a good boy directly they arrive, and before I leave here I'll show you how to do it. Only you mustn't talk about it to anybody, or I shall have everyone asking me the same thing."

His face brightened, and stammering out his thanks and his determination to keep the bargain a profound secret, he reluctantly took his departure. I felt that in future, whatever happened, I was pretty certain to get anything which turned up for me at the post-office without undue delay.

For the next half-hour or so I amused myself by constructing a kind of amateur magazine outside the hut in which to store my precious powder. It was safe enough in a way above ground, as I have already mentioned, but with inquisitive strangers like Mr. Latimer prowling around, I certainly didn't mean to leave a grain of it about while I was absent from the shed. I packed it all away in a waterproof iron box, which I had specially ordered for the purpose, and buried it in the hole that I had dug outside. Then I covered the latter over with a couple of pieces of turf, and carefully removed all traces of my handiwork.

It was not until I had finished this little job that I suddenly realized how tired I was. For the last four days I had scarcely stirred outside the shed, and I don't suppose I had averaged more than three hours' sleep a night the whole time. The excitement and interest of my work had kept me going, and now that it was over I found that I was almost dropping with fatigue.

I locked up the place, and walking across to the hut, opened myself one of the bottles of champagne which I had so thoughtfully purchased at the Off-Licence. It was not exactly a vintage wine, but I was in no mood to be over-critical, and I drank off a couple of glasses with the utmost appreciation. Then I lay down on the bed, and in less than five minutes I was sleeping like a log.

I woke up at exactly half-past four. However tired I am, a few hours' sleep always puts me right again, and by the time I had had a wash and changed into a clean shirt, I felt as fresh as a daisy.

I decided to walk straight over to the Betty. I knew that by this time Joyce would be on board, and as there was nothing else to be done in the shed, I thought I might just as well join her now as later. I had been too busy to miss any one very much the last four days, but now that the strain was over I felt curiously hungry to see her again. Besides, I was longing to hear what news she had brought about Tommy and George.

With a view to contributing some modest item towards the supper programme, I shoved the other bottle of champagne into my pocket, and then lighting a cigar, locked up the place, and set off for the creek by my usual route. The tide was very high, and on several occasions I had to scramble up and make my way along the sea-wall in full view of the marsh and the roadway. Fortunately, however, there seemed, as usual, to be no one about, and I reached the mouth of the creek without much fear of having been watched or followed.

The Betty was there all right, but I could see no sign of any one on board. I walked up the creek until I was exactly opposite where she was lying, and then putting my hands to my lips I gave her a gentle hail.

In an instant Joyce's head appeared out of the cabin, and the next moment she was on deck waving me a joyous welcome with the frying-pan.

"Oh, it's you!" she cried. "How lovely! Half a second, and I'll come over and fetch you."

"Where's Mr. Gow?" I called out.

"He's gone home. I sent him off for a holiday. There's no one on board but me."

She scrambled aft, and unshipping the dinghy, came sculling towards me across the intervening water. She was wearing a white jersey, and with her arms bare and her hair shining in the sunlight, she made a picture that only a blind man would have failed to find inspiring.

She brought up right against the bank where I was standing, and leaning over, caught hold of the grass.

"Jump," she said. "I'll hang on."

I jumped, and the next moment I was beside her in the boat, and we were hugging each other as cheerfully and naturally as two children.

"You dear, to come so soon!" she said. "I wasn't expecting you for ages."

I kissed her again, and then, picking up the oars, pushed off from the bank. "Joyce," I said, "I've done it! I've made enough of the blessed stuff to blow up half Tilbury."

She clapped her hands joyfully. "How splendid! I knew you would. Have you tried it?"

I shook my head. "Not yet," I said. "We'll do it early tomorrow morning, before any one's about." Then, digging in my scull to avoid a desolate-looking beacon, I added anxiously: "What about Tommy? Is he coming?"

Joyce nodded. "He'll be down tomorrow. I've got a letter for you from him. He saw Mr. Latimer last night."

"Did he!" said I. "Things are moving with a vengeance. What about the gentle George?"

Joyce laughed softly. "Oh," she said; "I've such lots to tell you, I hardly know where to start."

I ran the boat alongside the Betty, and we both climbed on board.

"Suppose we start by having some tea," I suggested. "I'm dying for a cup."

"You poor dear," said Joyce. "Of course you shall have one. You can read what Tommy says while I'm getting it ready."

She fetched the letter out of the cabin, and sitting in the well I proceeded to decipher the three foolscap pages of hieroglyphics which Tommy is pleased to describe as his handwriting. As far as I could make out they ran as follows:

"MY DEAR NEIL,

"I suppose I oughtn't to begin like that, in case somebody else got hold of the letter. It doesn't matter really, however, because Joyce is bringing it down, and you can tear the damn thing up as soon as you've read it.

"Well, I've seen Latimer. I wrote to him directly I got back, reminded him who I was, and told him I wanted to have a chat with him about some very special private business. He asked me to come round to his rooms in Jermyn Street last night at ten o'clock, and I was there till pretty near midnight.

"I thought I was bound to find out something, but good Lord, Neil, it came off in a way I'd never dared hope for. Practically speaking, I've got to the bottom of the whole business—at least so far as Latimer's concerned. You see he either had to explain or else tell me to go to the devil, and as he thought I was a perfectly safe sort of chap to be honest with, he decided to make a clean breast of it.

"To start with, it's very much what we suspected. Latimer is a Secret Service man, and that's how he comes to be mixed up in the job. It seems that some little while ago the Admiralty or one of the other Government departments got it into their heads that there were a number of Germans over in England spying out the land in view of a possible row over this Servian business. Latimer was told off amongst others to look into the matter. He had been sniffing around for some weeks without much luck, when more or less by chance he dropped across the track of those two very identical beauties who ran down Gow's boat in the Thames last Friday.

"Somehow or other they must have got wind of the fact that he was after them, and they evidently made up their minds to get rid of him. They seem to have set about it rather neatly. The man with the scar, who is either one of them or else in with them, introduced himself to Latimer as a member of the French Secret Service. He pretended that he had some special information about the case in hand, and although Latimer was a bit suspicious, he agreed to dine at Parelli's and hear what the fellow had to say.

"Well, you know the rest of that little incident. If it hadn't been for you there's not the faintest doubt that Latimer would have copped it all right, and I can tell you he's by way of being rather particularly grateful. I was specially instructed to send you a message to that effect next time I was writing.

"What the connection is between your crowd and these Germans I can't exactly make out. Of course if you're right in your idea about the chap with the scar spying on you in London it's perfectly obvious they're working together in some way. At the same time I'm quite sure that Latimer knows nothing about it. The reason he came down to look at the hut on Friday was because a report about it had been sent to him by one of his men—he has two fellows working under him—and he thought it might have something to do with the Germans. He described the way you had caught him quite frankly, and told me how he'd had to invent a lie about the Surveyor in order to get out of it.

"Exactly what he means to do next I don't know. He has got some plan on, and I've a notion he wants me to help him—at least he sounded me pretty plainly last night as to whether I'd be game to lend him a hand. I need hardly tell you I jumped at the idea. It seems to me our only possible chance of finding out anything. I am to see him or hear from him tomorrow, and directly I know what's in the wind I'll either write to you or come and look you up.

"Joyce will tell you all about George and McMurtrie. If they aren't both up to some kind of particularly dirty mischief I'll eat my whole wardrobe. We must talk it over thoroughly when we meet.

"I'm longing to see you again, and hear all about the work and what's been going on down there.

"So long, old son,

"Yours as ever,

"TOMMY."

I was just making out the last words, when Joyce emerged from the cabin, carrying some tea on a tray.

"Here you are, Neil," she said. "I have cut you only two slices of bread and butter, because I don't want you to spoil your supper. There's cold pheasant and peas and new potatoes."

I pulled out the bottle of champagne from my pocket. "If they're as new as this wine," I observed, "they ought to be delicious."

Joyce accepted my contribution, and after reading the label, placed it carefully on the floor of the well. "Sarcon et fils," she repeated. "I always thought they made vinegar."

"Perhaps they do," I replied. "We shall know when we drink it."

Joyce laughed, and sitting down beside me, poured me out a cup of tea. "You've read Tommy's letter," she said. "What do you think about it?"

I took a long drink. "From the little I've seen of Mr. Bruce Latimer," I said, "I should put him down as being one of the most accomplished liars in England." I paused. "At the same time," I added, "I think he's a fine fellow. I like his face."

Joyce nodded her head. "But you don't believe his story?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "It may be true," I said. "Tommy seems to think so anyhow. If it is, things are a bit simpler than I imagined—that's all."

"And if it isn't?" said Joyce.

"Ah!" said I, "if it isn't—"

I left the sentence unfinished, and helped myself to a second bit of bread and butter.

There was a short silence.

"Tell me about George, Joyce," I went on. "What are these particular dark doings that Tommy's hinting about?"

Joyce leaned forward with her chin on her hands, her blue eyes fixed on mine.

"Neil," she said slowly, "I've found out something at last—something I thought I was never going to. I know who the man was in Marks's rooms on the day that he was murdered."

I was so surprised that I gulped down a mouthful of nearly boiling tea.

"I wish you'd break these things more gently, Joyce," I said. "Who was it?"

"It was Dr. McMurtrie."

I put down the teacup and stared at her in the blankest amazement.

"Dr. McMurtrie!" I repeated incredulously.

She nodded. "Listen, and I'll tell you exactly how it all happened. I dined with George, as you know, at the Savoy on Friday, and we went into the whole business of my going away with him. He has got that twelve thousand pounds, Neil; there's no doubt about it. He showed me the entry in his pass-book and the acknowledgment from the bank, and he even offered to write me a cheque for a couple of hundred right away, to buy clothes with for the trip."

"From what I remember of George," I said, "he must be desperately in love with you."

Joyce gave a little shiver of disgust. "Of course I let him think I was giving way. I wanted to find out where the money had come from, but try as I would, I couldn't get him to tell me. That makes me feel so certain there's something wrong about it. In the end I arranged to dine with him again tomorrow night, when I said I'd give him my final answer. On Saturday morning, however, I changed my mind, and wrote him a note to say I'd come Thursday instead. I didn't mean to tie myself to be back tomorrow, in case you wanted me here."

She paused.

"I had to go up Victoria Street, so I thought I'd leave the letter at his office. I'd just got there, and I was standing outside the door opening my bag, when a man came down the steps. I looked up as he passed, and—oh Neil!—it was all I could do to stop myself from screaming. I knew him at once; I knew his cold wicked face just as well as if it had been only three days instead of three years. It was the man I'd seen in Marks's rooms on the afternoon of the murder."

She stopped again, and took a deep breath.

"I was horribly excited, and yet at the same time I felt quite cool. I let him get about ten yards away down the street, and then I started off after him. He walked as far as the Stores. Then he called an empty taxi that was coming past, and I heard him tell the driver to go to the Hotel Russell. I thought about how you'd followed the man with the scar, and I made up my mind I'd do the same thing. I had to wait for several seconds before another taxi came by, but directly it did I jumped in and told the man to drive me to the corner of Russell Square.

"I got there just as the other taxi was drawing up in front of the hotel. A porter came forward and opened the door, and I saw the man get out and go up the steps. I waited for one moment, and then I walked along to the entrance myself. The porter was still standing there, so I went straight up to him and asked him quite simply what the name of the gentleman was who had just gone inside. He sort of hesitated, and then he said to me: 'That gentleman, Miss?—that's Dr. McMurtrie.'"

Once more she paused, and, pushing away the tray, I lit myself a cigar. "It's lucky you've had some practice in surprises," I observed.

Joyce nodded. "Of course I was absolutely flabbergasted, but I don't think I showed anything. I sort of rummaged in my bag for a minute till I'd recovered; then I gave the man half a crown and asked him if he knew how long Dr. McMurtrie was staying. I think he was in doubt as to whether I was a female detective or a lady reporter; anyhow he took the money and said he was very sorry he didn't know, but that if I wanted an interview at any time he had no doubt it might be arranged. I thanked him, and said it didn't matter for the moment, and there I thought it best to leave things. You see I knew that whether McMurtrie stayed on at the Russell or not you were bound to see him again, and there was nothing to be gained by asking questions which the porter would probably repeat to him. It would only have helped to put him on his guard—wouldn't it?"

"My dear Joyce," I said, "I think you did splendidly. Sherlock Holmes couldn't have done better." I got up and walked to the end of the cockpit. "But good Lord!" I added, "this does complicate matters. You're absolutely certain it was McMurtrie you saw at Marks's flat?"

"Absolutely," repeated Joyce with emphasis. "I should remember his face if I lived to be a hundred."

I clenched my fists in a sudden spasm of anger. "There's some damned villainy underneath all this, Joyce," I said. "If McMurtrie was there that afternoon the odds are that he knows who committed the murder."

"He did it himself," said Joyce calmly. "I'm as sure of it as I am that I'm sitting here."

"But why?" I demanded—"why? Who on earth was Marks? Nobody in Chelsea seemed to know anything about him, and nothing came out at the trial. Why should any one have wanted to kill him except me?"

Joyce shook her head. "I don't know," she said stubbornly; "but I'm quite certain it was McMurtrie. I feel it inside me."

"And in any case," I continued, "what the devil is he doing messing about with George? I'm the only connecting-link between them, and he can't possibly mean to betray me—at all events, until he's got the secret of the powder. He knows George would give me up tomorrow."

Joyce made a gesture of perplexity. "I know," she said. "It's an absolute mystery to me too. I've been puzzling and puzzling over it till my head aches, and I can't see any sort of explanation at all."

"The only thing that's quite plain," I said, "is the fact that McMurtrie and Savaroff have been lying to me from the start. They are no more powder-merchants than you are. They want to get hold of my invention for some reason—to make money out of it, I suppose—and then they're prepared to clear out and leave me to George and the police. At least, that's what it's beginning to look like."

"Well, anyhow," said Joyce, "you're not tied to them any longer by your promise."

"No," I said; "it takes two to keep a bargain. Besides," I added rather bitterly, "I can afford the privilege of breaking my word. It's only what you'd expect from a convict."

Joyce got up, and coming to where I was sitting, slipped her arm through mine and softly stroked my hand. "Don't, Neil," she said. "I hate you to say anything that isn't fine and generous. It's like hearing music out of tune."

I drew her to me, and half closing her eyes, she laid her cheek against mine. We remained silent for a moment or two, and then, giving her a little hug, I sat up and took hold of her hands.

"Look here, Joyce," I said, "we won't just bother about anything for the rest of the day. We'll be cheerful and jolly and foolish, like we were on Friday. God knows how all this infernal tangle is going to pan out, but we may as well snatch one evening's happiness out of it while we've got the chance."

Joyce kissed me, and then jumping lightly from the seat, pulled me up with her. "We will," she said. "After all, we've got a boat and a lovely evening and a cold pheasant and a bottle of champagne—what more can any one want?"

"Well," I said, "it may sound greedy, but as a matter of fact I want some of those peas and new potatoes you were talking about just now."

She let go my hands, and opening one of the lockers, took out a large basin with a couple of bags in it. "There you are," she laughed. "You can skin them and shell them while I wash up the tea-things and lay the table. It's a man's duty to do the dangerous work."

Joyce had always had the gift of scattering a kind of infectious gaiety around her, and that night she seemed to be in her most bewitching and delightful mood. I think she made up her mind to try and wipe out from my memory for the time being all thoughts of the somewhat harassed state of existence in which it had pleased Providence to land me. If so, she succeeded admirably.

We cooked the supper between us. I boiled the peas and potatoes, and then, when we had done the first course, Joyce got up and made a brilliantly successful French omelette out of some fresh eggs which she had brought down for that inspired purpose.

It was very charming in the little low-ceilinged cabin, with the lamp swinging overhead and no sound outside but the soft lapping of the tide upon the sides of the boat. We lay and talked for some time after we had finished, while I smoked a cigar, and Joyce, stretched out luxuriously on the other bunk, indulged in a couple of cigarettes.

"We won't wash up," I said. "I'll just shove everything through into the fo'c's'le, and we'll leave them there for Mr. Gow. A certain amount of exercise will be good for him after his holiday."

"Do," said Joyce sleepily. "And then come and sit over here, Neil. I want to stroke your hair."

I cleared away the things, and shutting up the table, which worked on a hinge, spread out my own cushions on the floor alongside of Joyce's bunk. The latter was just low enough to let me rest my head comfortably on her shoulder.

How long we lay like that I really don't know. My whole body and mind were steeped in a strange, delightful sense of peace and contentment, and I began to realize, I think for the first time, how utterly necessary and dear to me Joyce had become. I slid my arm underneath her—she lay close up against me, her hair, which she had loosened from its fastenings, half covering us both in its soft beauty.

The lamp flickered and died down, but we didn't trouble to relight it. Outside the night grew darker and darker, and through the open hatch we could just see a solitary star shining down on us from between two banks of cloud. Cool and sweet, a faint breeze drifted in from the silent marshes.

Then, quite suddenly, it seemed to me, a strange madness and music filled the night for both of us. I only knew that Joyce was in my arms and that we were kissing each other with fierce, unheeding passion. There were tears on her cheeks—little sweet, salt tears of love and happiness that felt all wet against my lips.

It was only a moment—just one brief moment of unutterable beauty—and then I remembered. With a groan I half raised myself in the darkness.

"I must go, Joyce," I whispered. "I can't stay here. I daren't."

She slipped her soft bare arms round my neck, and drew my face down to hers.

"Don't go," she whispered back. "Not if you don't want to. What does it matter? I am all yours, Neil, anyway."

For a moment I felt her warm fragrant breath upon my face, and her heart beating quickly against mine. Then, with an effort—a big effort—I tore myself away.

"Joyce dear," I said, "it would only make things worse. Oh, my dear sweet Joyce, I want you like the night wants the dawn, but we can't cheat life. Suppose we fail—suppose there's only death or prison in front of me. It will be hard enough now, but if—"

I broke off, and with a little sob Joyce sat up and felt for my hand.

"You're right, darling," she said; "but oh, my dear, my dear!" She lifted up my hand and passed it softly backwards and forwards across her eyes. Then, with a little laugh that had tears close behind it, she added: "Do you know, my Neil, I'm conceited enough to think you're rather wonderful."

I bent down and kissed her with infinite tenderness.

"I am, Joyce," I said. "Exactly how wonderful you'll never know."

Then I lifted her up in my arms, and we went out of the cabin into the cool darkness of the night.

"I'll row myself ashore," I said, "and leave the dinghy on the beach. I shall be back about four o'clock, if that's not too early for you. We ought to get our explosion over before there's any one about."

Joyce nodded. "I don't mind how early you come. The sooner the better."

"Try and get some sleep," I added; "you'll be tired out tomorrow if you don't."

"I'll try," said Joyce simply; "but I don't think I shall. I'm not even sure I want to."

I kissed her once more, and slipping down into the dinghy, pulled off for the shore. Everything around was dark and silent—the faint splash of my oars alone breaking the utter stillness. Landing at my usual spot, more by luck than judgment, I tugged the boat up out of reach of the tide, and then, turning round, waved good-night to the Betty.

It was too dark to see anything, but I think Joyce sent me back my message.



CHAPTER XIX

LAUNCHING A NEW INVENTION

The eastern sky was just flushing into light when I got back to the creek at four o'clock. It was a beautiful morning—cool and still—with the sweet freshness of early dawn in the air, and the promise of a long unclouded day of spring sunshine.

I tugged the dinghy down to the water, and pushed off for the Betty, which looked strangely small and unreal lying there in the dim, mysterious twilight. The sound I made as I drew near must have reached Joyce's ears. She was up on deck in a moment, fully dressed, and with her hair twisted into a long bronze plait that hung down some way below her waist. She looked as fresh and fair as the dawn itself.

"Beautifully punctual," she called out over the side. "I knew you would be, so I started getting breakfast."

I caught hold of the gunwale and scrambled on board.

"It's like living at the Savoy," I said. "Breakfast was a luxury that had never entered my head."

"Well, it's going to now," she returned, "unless you're in too great a hurry to start. It's all ready in the cabin."

"We can spare ten minutes certainly," I said. "Experiments should always be made on a full body."

I tied up the dinghy and followed her inside, where the table was decorated with bread and butter and the remnants of the cold pheasant, while a kettle hissed away cheerfully on the Primus.

"I don't believe you've been to bed at all, Joyce," I said. "And yet you look as if you'd just slipped out of Paradise by accident."

She laughed, and putting her hand in my side-pocket, took out my handkerchief to lift off the kettle with.

"I didn't want to sleep," she said. "I was too happy, and too miserable. It's the widest-awake mixture I ever tried." Then, picking up the teapot, she added curiously: "Where's the powder? I expected to see you arrive with a large keg over your shoulder."

I sat down at the table and produced a couple of glass flasks, tightly corked.

"Here you are," I said. "This is ordinary gunpowder, and this other one's my stuff. It looks harmless enough, doesn't it?"

Joyce took both flasks and examined them with interest. "You've not brought very much of it," she said. "I was hoping we were going to have a really big blow-up."

"It will be big enough," I returned consolingly, "unless I've made a mistake."

"Where are you going to do it?" she asked.

"Somewhere at the back of Canvey Island," I said. "There's no one to wake up there except the sea-gulls, and we can be out of sight round the corner before it explodes. I've got about twenty feet of fuse, which will give us at least a quarter of an hour to get away in."

"What fun!" exclaimed Joyce. "I feel just like an anarchist or something; and it's lovely to know that one's launching a new invention. We ought to have kept that bottle of champagne to christen it with."

"Yes," I said regretfully; "it was the real christening brand too."

There was a short silence. "I've thought of a name for it," cried Joyce suddenly. "The powder, I mean. We'll call it Lyndonite. It sounds like something that goes off with a bang, doesn't it?"

I laughed. "It would probably suggest that to the prison authorities," I said. "Anyhow, Lyndonite it shall be."

We finished breakfast, and going up on deck I proceeded to haul in the anchor, while Joyce stowed away the crockery and provisions below. For once in a way the engine started without much difficulty, and as the tide was running out fast it didn't take us very long to reach the mouth of the creek.

Once outside, I set a course down stream as close to the northern shore as I dared go. Except for a rusty-looking steam tramp we had the whole river to ourselves, not even a solitary barge breaking the long stretch of grey water. One by one the old landmarks—Mucking Lighthouse, the Thames Cattle Wharf, and Hole Haven—were left behind, and at last the entrance to the creek that runs round behind Canvey Island came into sight.

One would never accuse it of being a cheerful, bustling sort of place at the best of times, but at five o'clock in the morning it seemed the very picture of uninhabited desolation. A better locality in which to enjoy a little quiet practice with new explosives it would be difficult to imagine.

I navigated the Betty in rather gingerly, for it was over three years since I had visited the spot. Joyce kept on sounding diligently with the lead either side of the boat, and at last we brought up in about one and a half fathom, just comfortably out of sight of the main stream.

"This will do nicely," I said. "We'll turn her round first, and then I'll row into the bank and fix things up under that tree over there. We can be back in the river before anything happens."

"Can't we stop and watch?" asked Joyce. "I should love to see it go off."

I shook my head. "Unless I've made a mistake," I said, "it will be much healthier round the corner. We'll come back and see what's happened afterwards."

By the aid of some delicate manoeuvring I brought the Betty round, and then getting into the dinghy pulled myself ashore.

It was quite unnecessary for my experiment to make any complicated preparations. All I had to do was to dig a hole in the bank with a trowel that I had brought for the purpose, empty my stuff into that, and tip in the gunpowder on top. When I had finished I covered the whole thing over with earth, leaving a clear passage for the fuse, and then lighting the end of the latter, jumped back into the boat and pulled off rapidly for the Betty.

We didn't waste any time dawdling about. Joyce seized the painter as I climbed on board, and hurrying to the tiller I started off down the creek as fast as we could go, taking very particular pains not to run aground.

We had reached the mouth, and I was swinging her round into the main river, when a sudden rumbling roar disturbed the peacefulness of the dawn. Joyce, who was staring out over the stern, gave a little startled cry, and glancing hastily back I was just in time to see a disintegrated-looking tree soaring gaily up into the air in the midst of a huge column of dust and smoke. The next moment a rain of falling fragments of earth and wood came splashing down into the water—a few stray pieces actually reaching the Betty, which rocked vigorously as a minature tidal wave swept after us up the creek.

I put down my helm and brought her round so as to face the stricken field.

"We seem to have done it, Joyce," I observed with some contentment.

She gave a little gasping sort of laugh. "It was splendid!" she said. "But, oh, Neil, what appalling stuff it must be! It's blown up half Canvey Island!"

"Never mind," I said cheerfully. "There are plenty of other islands left. Let's get into the dinghy and see what the damage really amounts to. I fancy it's fairly useful."

We anchored the Betty, and then pulled up the creek towards the scene of the explosion, where a gaping aperture in the bank was plainly visible. As we drew near I saw that it extended, roughly speaking, in a half-circle of perhaps twenty yards diameter. The whole of this, which had previously been a solid bank of grass and earth, was now nothing but a muddy pool. Of the unfortunate tree which had marked the site there was not a vestige remaining.

I regarded it all from the boat with the complacent pride of a successful inventor. "It's even better than I expected, Joyce," I said. "If one can do this with three-quarters of a pound, just fancy the effect of a couple of hundredweight. It would shift half London."

Joyce nodded. "They'll be more anxious than ever to get hold of it, when they know," she said. "What are you going to do? Write and tell McMurtrie that you've succeeded?"

"I haven't quite decided," I answered. "I shall wait till tomorrow or the next day, anyhow. I want to hear what Sonia has got to say first." Then, backing away the boat, I added: "We'd better get out of this as soon as we can. It's just possible some one may have heard the explosion and come pushing along to find out what's the matter. People are so horribly inquisitive."

Joyce laughed. "It would be rather awkward, wouldn't it? We couldn't very well say it was an earthquake. It looks too neat and tidy."

Fortunately for us, if there was any one in the neighbourhood who had heard the noise, they were either too lazy or too incurious to investigate the cause. We got back on board the Betty and took her out into the main stream without seeing a sign of any one except ourselves. The hull of the steam tramp was just visible in the far distance, but except for that the river was still pleasantly deserted.

"What shall we do now, Joyce?" I asked. "It seems to me that this is an occasion which distinctly requires celebrating."

Joyce thought for a moment. "Let's go for a long sail," she suggested, "and then put in at Southend and have asparagus for lunch."

I looked at her with affectionate approval. "You always have beautiful ideas," I said. Then a sudden inspiration seized me. "I've got it!" I cried. "What do you say to running down to Sheppey and paying a call on our German pals?"

Joyce's blue eyes sparkled. "It would be lovely," she said, with a deep breath; "but dare we risk it?"

"There's no risk," I rejoined. "When I said 'pay a call,' I didn't mean it quite literally. My idea was to cruise along the coast and just find out exactly where their precious bungalow is, and what they do with that launch of theirs when they're not swamping inquisitive boatmen. It's the sort of information that might turn out useful."

Joyce nodded. "We'll go," she said briefly. "What about the tide?"

"Oh, the tide doesn't matter," I replied. "It will be dead out by the time we get to Southend; but we only draw about three foot six, and we can cut across through the Jenkin Swatch. There's water enough off Sheppey to float a battleship."

It was the work of a few minutes to pull in the anchor and haul up the sails, which filled immediately to a slight breeze that had just sprung up from the west. Leaving a still peaceful, if somewhat mutilated, Canvey Island behind us, we started off down the river, gliding along with an agreeable smoothness that fitted in very nicely with my state of mind.

Indeed I don't think I had ever felt anything so nearly approaching complete serenity since my escape from Dartmoor. It is true that the tangle in which I was involved, appeared more threatening and complicated than ever, but one gets so used to sitting on a powder mine that the situation was gradually ceasing to distress me.

At all events I had made my explosive, and that was one great step towards a solution of some sort. If McMurtrie was prepared to play the game with me I should in a few days be in what the newspapers call "a position of comparative affluence," while if his intentions were less straightforward I should at least have some definite idea as to where I was. Sonia's promised disclosures were a guarantee of that.

But apart from these considerations the mere fact of having Joyce sitting beside me in the boat while we bowled along cheerfully through the water was quite enough in itself to account for my new-found happiness. One realizes some things in life with curious abruptness, and I knew now how deeply and passionately I loved her. I suppose I had always done so really, but she had been little more than a child in the old Chelsea days, and the sort of brotherly tenderness and pride I had had for her must have blinded me to the truth.

Anyhow it was out now; out beyond any question of doubt or argument. She was as necessary and dear to me as the stars are to the night, and it seemed ridiculously impossible to contemplate any sort of existence without her. Not that I wasted much energy attempting the feat; the present was sufficiently charming to occupy my entire time.

We passed Leigh and Southend, the former with its fleet of fishing-smacks and the latter with its long unlovely pier, and then nosed our way delicately into the Jenkin Swatch, that convenient ditch which runs right across the mouth of the Thames. The sun was now high in the sky, and one could see signs of activity on the various barges that were hanging about the neighbourhood waiting for the tide.

I pointed away past the Nore Lightship towards a bit of rising ground on the low-lying Sheppey coast.

"That's about where our pals are hanging out," I said. "There's a little deep-water creek there, which Tommy and I used to use sometimes, and according to Mr. Gow their bungalow is close by."

Joyce peered out under her hand across the intervening water. "It's a nice situation," she observed, "for artists."

I laughed. "Yes," I said. "They are so close to Sheerness and Shoeburyness, and other places of beauty. I expect they've done quite a lot of quiet sketching."

We reached the end of the Swatch, and leaving Queenborough, with its grim collection of battleships and coal hulks, to starboard, we stood out to sea along the coastline. It was a fairly long sail to the place which I had pointed out to Joyce, but with a light breeze behind her the Betty danced along so gaily that we covered the distance in a surprisingly short time.

As we drew near, Joyce got out Tommy's field-glasses from the cabin, and kneeling up on the seat in the well, focused them carefully on the spot.

"There's the entrance to the creek all right," she said, "but I don't see any sign of a bungalow anywhere." She moved the glasses slowly from side to side. "Oh, yes," she exclaimed suddenly, "I've got it now—right up on the cliff there, away to the left. One can only just see the roof, though, and it seems some way from the creek."

She resigned the glasses to me, and took over the tiller, while I had a turn at examining the coast.

I soon made out the roof of the bungalow, which, as Joyce had said, was the only part visible. It stood in a very lonely position, high up on a piece of rising ground, and half hidden from the sea by what seemed like a thick privet hedge. To judge by the smoke which I could just discern rising from its solitary chimney, it looked as if the occupants were addicted to the excellent habit of early rising.

There was no other sign of them to be seen, however, and if the launch was lying anywhere about, it was at all events invisible from the sea. I refreshed my memory with a long, careful scrutiny of the entrance to the creek, and then handing the glasses back to Joyce I again assumed control of the boat.

"Well," I observed, "we haven't wasted the morning. We know where their bungalow door is, anyway."

Joyce nodded. "It may come in very handy," she said, "in case you ever want to pay them a surprise call."

Exactly how soon that contingency was going to occur we neither of us guessed or imagined!

We reached the Nore Lightship, and waving a courteous greeting to a patient-looking gentleman who was spitting over the side, commenced our long beat back in the direction of Southend. It was slow work, for the tide was only just beginning to turn, and the wind, such as there was of it, was dead in our faces. However, I don't think either Joyce or I found the time hang heavily on our hands. If one can't be happy with the sun and the sea and the person one loves best in the world, it seems to me that one must be unreasonably difficult to please.

We fetched up off Southend Pier at just about eleven o'clock. A hoarse-voiced person in a blue jersey, who was leaning over the end, pointed us out some moorings that we were at liberty to pick up, and then watched us critically while I stowed away the sails and locked up everything in the boat which it was possible to steal. I had been to Southend before in the old days.

These simple precautions concluded, Joyce and I got in the dinghy and rowed to the steps. We were met by the gentleman in blue, who considerately offered to keep his eye on the boat for us while I "and the lady" enjoyed what he called "a run round the town." I accepted his proposal, and having agreed with his statement that it was "a nice morning for a sail," set off with Joyce along the mile of pier that separated us from the shore.

I don't know that our adventures for the next two or three hours call for any detailed description. We wandered leisurely and cheerfully through the town, buying each other one or two trifles in the way of presents, and then adjourned for lunch to a large and rather dazzling hotel that dominated the sea front. It was a new effort on the part of Southend since my time, but, as Joyce said, it "looked the sort of place where one was likely to get asparagus."

Its appearance did not belie it. At a corner table in the window, looking out over the sea, we disposed of what the waiter described as "two double portions" of that agreeable vegetable, together with an excellent steak and a bottle of sound if slightly too sweet burgundy. Then over a couple of cigarettes we discussed our immediate plans.

"I think I'd better catch the three-thirty back," said Joyce. "I've got one or two things I want to do before I meet George, and in any case you mustn't stay here too long or you'll miss the tide."

"That doesn't really matter," I said. "Only I suppose I ought to get back just in case Tommy has turned up. I can't leave him sitting on a mud-flat all night."

Joyce laughed. "He'd probably be a little peevish in the morning. Men are so unreasonable."

I leaned across the table and took her hand. "When are you coming down again?" I asked. "Tomorrow?"

Joyce thought for a moment. "Tomorrow or the next day. It all depends if I see a chance of getting anything more out of George. I'll write to you or send you a wire, dear, anyhow."

I nodded. "All right," I said; "and look here, Joyce; you may as well come straight to the hut next time. It's not the least likely there'll be any one there except me, and if there was you could easily pretend you wanted to ask the way to Tilbury. You see, if Gow wasn't about, you would have to pull the dinghy all the way down the bank before you got on board the Betty, and that's a nice, muddy, shin-scraping sort of job at the best of times."

"Very well," said Joyce. Then squeezing my hand a little tighter she added: "And my own Neil, you will be careful, won't you? I always seem to be asking you that, but, oh my dear, if you knew how horribly frightened I am of anything happening to you. It will be worse than ever now, after last night. I don't seem to feel it when I'm actually with you—I suppose I'm too happy—but when I'm away from you it's just like some ghastly horrible sword hanging over our heads all the time. Neil darling, as soon as you get this money from McMurtrie—if you do get it—can't we just give up the whole thing and go away and be happy together?"

I lifted her hand and pressed the inside of it against my lips.

"Joyce," I said, "think what it means. It's just funking life—just giving it up because the odds seem too heavy against us. I shouldn't have minded killing Marks in the least. I should be rather proud of it. If I had, we would go away together tomorrow, and I should never worry my head as to what any one in the world was saying or thinking about me." I paused. "But I didn't kill him," I added slowly, "and that just makes all the difference."

Joyce's blue eyes were very near tears, but they looked back steadily and bravely into mine.

"Yes, yes," she said. "I didn't really mean it, Neil. I was just weak for the moment—that's all. Right down in my heart I want everything for you; I could never be contented with less. I want the whole world to know how they've wronged you; I want you to be famous and powerful and splendid, and I want the people who've abused you to come and smirk and grovel to you, and say that they knew all the time that you were innocent." She stopped and took a deep breath. "And they shall, Neil. I'm as certain of it as if I saw it happening. I seem to know inside me that we're on the very point of finding out the truth."

I don't think my worst enemy would accuse me of being superstitious, but there was a ring of conviction in Joyce's voice which somehow or other affected me curiously.

"I believe you're right," I said. "I've got something of that sort of feeling too. Perhaps it's infectious." Then, letting go her hand, to spare the feelings of the waiter who had just come into the room, I sat back in my chair and ordered the bill.

We didn't talk much on our way to the station. I think we were both feeling rather depressed at the prospect of doing without each other for at least twenty-four hours, and in any case the trams and motors and jostling crowd of holiday-makers who filled the main street would have rendered any connected conversation rather a difficult art.

A good many people favoured Joyce with glances of admiration, especially a spruce-looking young constable who officially held up the traffic to allow us to cross the road. He paid no attention at all to me, but I consoled myself with the reflection that he was missing an excellent chance of promotion.

At the station I put Joyce into a first-class carriage, kissed her affectionately under the disapproving eye of an old lady in the opposite corner, and then stood on the platform until the train steamed slowly out of the station.

I turned away at last, feeling quite unpleasantly alone. It's no good worrying about what can't be altered, however, so, lighting a cigar, I strolled back philosophically to the hotel, where I treated myself to the luxury of a hot bath before rejoining the boat.

It must have been pretty nearly half-past four by the time I reached the pier-head. My friend with the hoarse voice and the blue jersey was still hanging around, looking rather thirsty and exhausted after his strenuous day's work of watching over the dinghy. I gave him half a crown for his trouble, and followed by his benediction pulled off for the Betty.

The wind had gone round a bit to the south, and as the tide was still coming in I decided to sail up to the creek in preference to using the engine. The confounded throb of the latter always got on my nerves, and apart from that I felt that the mere fact of having to handle the sails would keep my mind lightly but healthily occupied. Unless I was mistaken, a little light healthy occupation was exactly what my mind needed.

As occasionally happens on exceptionally fine days in late spring, the perfect clearness of the afternoon was gradually beginning to give place to a sort of fine haze. It was not thick enough, however, to bother me in any way, and under a jib and mainsail the Betty swished along at such a satisfactory pace that I was in sight of Gravesend Reach before either the light or the tide had time to fail me.

I thought I knew the entrance to the creek well enough by now to run her in under sail, though it was a job that required a certain amount of cautious handling. Anyhow I decided to risk it, and, heading for the shore, steered her up the narrow channel, which I had been careful to take the bearings of at low water.

I was so engrossed in this feat of navigation that I took no notice of anything else, until a voice from the bank abruptly attracted my attention. I looked up with a start, nearly running myself aground, and there on the bank I saw a gesticulating figure, which I immediately recognized as that of Tommy. I shouted a greeting back, and swinging the Betty round, brought up in almost the identical place where we had anchored on the previous night.

Tommy, who had hurried down to the edge of the water, gave me a second hail.

"Buck up, old son!" he called out. "There's something doing."

A suggestion of haste from Tommy argued a crisis of such urgency that I didn't waste any time asking questions. I just threw over the anchor, and tumbling into the dinghy sculled ashore as quickly as I could.

"Sorry I kept you waiting, Tommy," I said, as he jumped into the boat. "Been here long?"

"About three hours," he returned. "I was beginning to wonder if you were dead."

I shook my head. "I'm not fit to die yet," I replied. "What's the matter?"

He looked at his watch. "Well, the chief matter is the time. Do you think I can get to Sheppey by half-past nine?"

I paused in my rowing. "Sheppey!" I repeated. "Why damn it, Tommy, I've just come back from Sheppey."

It was Tommy's turn to look surprised. "The devil you have!" he exclaimed. "What took you there?"

"To be exact," I said, "it was the Betty"; and then in as few words as possible I proceeded to acquaint him with the morning's doings. I was just finishing as we came alongside.

"Well, that's fine about the powder," he said, scrambling on board. "Where's Gow?"

"Joyce sent him off for a holiday," I answered, "and he hasn't come back yet." Then hitching up the dinghy I added curiously: "What's up, Tommy? Let's have it."

"It's Latimer," he said. "I told you I was expecting to hear from him. He sent me a message round early this morning, and I've promised him I'll be in the creek under the German's bungalow by half-past nine. I must get there somehow."

"Oh, we'll get there all right," I returned cheerfully, "What's the game?"

"I think he's having a squint round," said Tommy. "Anyhow I know he's there on his own and depending on me to pick him up."

"But what made him ask you?" I demanded.

"He knew I had a boat, and I fancy he's working this particular racket without any official help. As far as I can make out, he wants to be quite certain what these fellows are up to before he strikes. You don't get much sympathy in the Secret Service if you happen to make a mistake."

"Well, it's no good wasting time talking," I said. "If we want to be there by half-past nine we must push off at once."

"But what about you?" exclaimed Tommy. "You can't come! He's seen you, you know, at the hut."

"What does it matter?" I objected. "If he didn't recognize me as the chap who sent him the note at Parelli's, we can easily fake up some explanation. Tell him I'm a new member of the Athenians, and that you happened to run across me and brought me down to help work the boat. There's no reason one shouldn't be a yachtsman and a photographer too."

I spoke lightly, but as a matter of fact I was some way from trusting Tommy's judgment implicitly with regard to Latimer's straightforwardness about the restaurant incident, and also about his visit to the hut. All the same, I was quite determined to go to Sheppey. Things had come to a point now when there was nothing to be gained by over-caution. Either Latimer had recognized me or else he hadn't. In the first event, he knew already that Tommy had been trying to deceive him, and that the mythical artist person was none other than myself. If that were so, I felt it was best to take the bull by the horns, and try to find out exactly what part he suspected me of playing. I had at least saved his life, and although we live in an ungrateful world, he seemed bound to be more or less prejudiced in my favour.

Apart from these considerations, Tommy would certainly want some help in working the Betty. He knew his job well enough, but with a haze on the river and the twilight drawing in rapidly, the mouth of the Thames is no place for single-handed sailing—especially when you're in a hurry.

Tommy evidently recognized this, for he raised no further objections.

"Very well," he said, with a rather reckless laugh. "We're gambling a bit, but that's the fault of the cards. Up with the anchor, Neil, and let's get a move on her."

I hauled in the chain, and then jumped up to attend to the sails, which I had just let down loosely on deck, in my hurry to put off in the dinghy. After a couple of unsuccessful efforts and two or three very successful oaths, Tommy persuaded the engine to start, and we throbbed off slowly down the creek—now quite a respectable estuary of tidal water.

I sat back in the well with a laugh. "I never expected a second trip tonight," I said. "I'm beginning to feel rather like the captain of a penny steamer."

Tommy, who was combining the important duties of steering and lighting a pipe, looked up from his labours.

"The Lyndon-Morrison Line!" he observed. "Tilbury to Sheppey twice daily. Passengers are requested not to speak to the man at the wheel."

"I think, Tommy," I said, "that we must make an exception in the case of Mr. Latimer."



CHAPTER XX

APPROACHING A SOLUTION

A Chinese proverb informs us that "there are three hundred and forty-six subjects for elegant conversation," but during the trip down I think that Tommy and I confined ourselves almost exclusively to two. One was Mr. Bruce Latimer, and the other was Joyce's amazing discovery about McMurtrie and Marks.

Concerning the latter Tommy was just as astonished and baffled as I was.

"I'm blessed if I know what to think about it, Neil," he admitted. "If it was any one else but Joyce, I should say she'd made a mistake. What on earth could McMurtrie have had to do with that Jew beast?"

"Joyce seems to think he had quite a lot to do with him," I said.

Tommy nodded. "I know. She's made up her mind he did the job all right; but, hang it all, one doesn't go and murder people without any conceivable reason."

"I can conceive plenty of excellent reasons for murdering Marks," I said impartially. "I should hardly think they would have appealed to McMurtrie, though. The chief thing that makes me suspicious about him is the fact of his knowing George and hiding it from me all this time. I suppose that was how he got hold of his information about the powder. George was almost the only person who knew of it."

"I always thought the whole business was a devilish odd one," growled Tommy; "but the more one finds out about it the queerer it seems to get. These people of yours—McMurtrie and Savaroff—are weird enough customers on their own, but when it comes to their being mixed up with both George and Marks ..." he paused. "It will turn out next that Latimer's in it too," he added half-mockingly.

"I shouldn't wonder," I said. "I can't swallow everything he told you, Tommy. It leaves too much unexplained. You see, I'm pretty certain that the chap who tried to do him in is one of McMurtrie's crowd, and in that case—"

"In that case," interrupted Tommy, with a short laugh, "we ought to have rather an interesting evening. Seems to me, Neil, we're what you might call burning our boats this journey."

The old compunction I had felt at first against dragging Tommy and Joyce into my affairs suddenly came back to me with renewed force.

"I'm a selfish brute, Thomas," I said ruefully. "I think the best thing I could do really would be to drop overboard. The Lord knows what trouble I shall land you in before I've finished."

"You'll land me into the trouble of telling you not to talk rot in a minute," he returned. Then, standing up and peering out ahead over the long dim expanse of water, dotted here and there with patches of blurred light, he added cheerfully: "You take her over now, Neil, We're right at the end of the Yantlet, and after this morning you ought to know the rest of the way better than I do."

He resigned the tiller to me, and pulling out his watch, held it up to the binnacle lamp.

"Close on a quarter to nine," he said. "We shall just do it nicely if the engine doesn't stop."

"I hope so," I said. "I should hate to keep a Government official waiting."

We crossed the broad entrance into Queenborough Harbour, where the dim bulk of a couple of battleships loomed up vaguely through the haze. It was a strange, exhilarating sensation, throbbing along in the semi-darkness, with all sorts of unknown possibilities waiting for us ahead. More than ever I felt what Joyce had described in the morning—a sort of curious inward conviction that we were at last on the point of finding out the truth.

"We'd better slacken down a bit when we get near," said Tommy. "Latimer specially told me to bring her in as quietly as I could."

I nodded. "Right you are," I said. "I wasn't going to hurry, anyhow. It's a tricky place, and I don't want to smash up any more islands. One a day is quite enough."

I slowed down the engine to about four knots an hour, and at this dignified pace we proceeded along the coast, keeping a watchful eye for the entrance to the creek. At last a vague outline of rising ground showed us that we were in the right neighbourhood, and bringing the Betty round, I headed her in very delicately towards the shore. It was distressingly dark, from a helmsman's point of view, but Tommy, who had gone up into the bows, handed me back instructions, and by dint of infinite care we succeeded in making the opening with surprising accuracy.

The creek was quite small, with a steep bank one side perhaps fifteen feet high, and what looked like a stretch of mud or saltings on the other. Its natural beauties, however, if it had any, were rather obscured by the darkness.

"What shall we do now, Tommy?" I asked in a subdued voice. "Turn her round?"

He came back to the well. "Yes," he said, "turn her round, and then I'll cut out the engine and throttle her down. She'll make a certain amount of row, but we can't help that. I daren't stop her; or she might never start again."

We carried out our manoeuvre successfully, and then dropped over the anchor to keep us in position. I seated myself on the roof of the cabin, and pulling out a pipe, commenced to fill it.

"I wonder how long the interval is," I said. "I suppose spying is a sort of job you can't fix an exact time-limit to."

Tommy looked at his watch again. "It's just on a quarter to ten now. He told me not to wait after half-past."

I stuffed down the baccy with my thumb, and felt in my pocket for a match.

"It seems to me—" I began.

The interesting remark I was about to make was never uttered. From the high ground away to the left came the sudden crack of a revolver shot that rang out with startling viciousness on the night air. It was followed almost instantly by a second.

Tommy and I leaped up together, inspired simultaneously by the same idea. Being half way there, however, I easily reached the painter first.

"All right," I cried, "I'll pick him up. You haul in and have her ready to start."

I don't know exactly what the record is for getting off in a dinghy in the dark, but I think I hold it with something to spare. I was away from the ship and sculling furiously for the shore in about the same time that it has taken to write this particular sentence.

I pulled straight for the direction in which I had heard the shots. It was the steepest part of the cliff, but under the circumstances it seemed the most likely spot at which my services would be required. People are apt to take a short cut when revolver bullets are chasing about the neighbourhood.

I stopped rowing a few yards from the shore, and swinging the boat round, stared up through the gloom. There was just light enough to make out the top of the cliff, which appeared to be covered by a thick growth of gorse several feet in height. I backed away a stroke or two, and as I did so, there came a sudden snapping, rustling sound from up above, and the next instant the figure of a man broke through the bushes.

He peered down eagerly at the water.

"That you, Morrison?" he called out in a low, distinct voice, which I recognized at once.

"Yes," I answered briefly. It struck me as being no time for elaborate explanations.

Mr. Latimer was evidently of the same opinion. Without any further remark, he stepped forward to the edge of the cliff, and jumping well out into the air, came down with a beautiful splash about a dozen yards from the boat.

He rose to the surface at once, and I was alongside of him a moment later.

"It's all right," I said, as he clutched hold of the stern. "Morrison's in the Betty; I'm lending him a hand."

I caught his arm to help him in, and as I did so he gave a little sharp exclamation of pain.

"Hullo!" I said, shifting my grip. "What's the matter?"

With an effort he hoisted himself up into the boat.

"Nothing much, thanks," he answered in that curious composed voice of his. "I think one of our friends made a luckier shot than he deserved to. It's only my left arm, though."

I seized the sculls, and began to pull off quickly for the Betty.

"We'll look at it in a second," I said. "Are they after you?"

He laughed. "Yes, some little way after. I took the precaution of starting in the other direction and then doubling back. It worked excellently."

He spoke in the same rather amused drawl as he had done at the hut, and there was no hint of hurry or excitement in his manner. I could just see, however, that he was dressed in rough, common-looking clothes, and that he was no longer wearing an eye-glass. If he had had a cap, he had evidently parted with it during his dive into the sea.

A few strokes brought us to the Betty, where Tommy was leaning over the side ready to receive us.

"All right?" he inquired coolly, as we scrambled on board.

"Nothing serious," replied Latimer. "Thanks to you and—and this gentleman."

"They've winged him, Tommy," I said. "Can you take her out while I have a squint at the damage?"

Tommy's answer was to thrust in the clutch of the engine, and with an abrupt jerk we started off down the creek. As we did so there came a sudden hail from the shore.

"Boat ahoy! What boat's that?"

It was a deep, rather dictatorial sort of voice, with the faintest possible touch of a foreign accent about it.

Latimer replied at once in a cheerful, good-natured bawl, amazingly different from his ordinary tone:

"Private launch, Vanity, Southend; and who the hell are you?"

Whether the vigour of the reply upset our questioner or not, I can't say. Anyhow he returned no answer, and leaving him to think what he pleased, we continued our way out into the main stream.

"Come into the cabin and let's have a look at you," I said to Latimer. "You must get those wet things off, anyhow."

He followed me inside, where I took down the small hanging lamp and placed it on the table. Then very carefully I helped him strip off his coat, bringing to light a grey flannel shirt, the left sleeve of which was soaked in blood.

I took out my knife, and ripped it up from the cuff to the shoulder. The wound was about a couple of inches above the elbow, a small clean puncture right through from side to side. It was bleeding a bit, but one could see at a glance that the bullet had just missed the bone.

"You're lucky," I said. "Another quarter of an inch, and that arm would have been precious little use to you for the next two months. Does it hurt much?"

He shook his head. "Not the least," he replied carelessly. "I hardly knew I was hit until you grabbed hold of me."

I tied my handkerchief round as tightly as possible just above the place, and then going to the locker hauled out our spare fancy costume which had previously done duty for Mr. Gow.

"You get these on first," I said, "and then I'll fix you up properly."

I thrust my head out through the cabin door to see how things were going, and found that we were already clear of the creek and heading back towards Queenborough. Tommy, who was sitting at the tiller puffing away peacefully at a pipe, removed the latter article from his mouth.