Copplestone had seen and learned enough of Audrey Greyle during his brief stay at Scarhaven to make him assured that she would not have sent for him save for very good and grave reasons. It had been with manifest reluctance that she had given him her promise to do so: her entire behaviour during the conference with Mr. Dennie and Gilling had convinced him that she had an inherent distaste for publicity and an instinctive repugnance to calling in the aid of strangers. He had never expected that she would send for him—he himself knew that he should go back to her, but the return would be on his own initiative. There, however, was her summons, definite as it was brief. He was wanted—and by her. And without opening one of his letters, he snatched up the whole pile, thrust it into his pocket, hurriedly made some preparation for his journey and raced off to King's Cross.

He fumed and fretted with impatience during the six hours' journey down to Norcaster. It was ten o'clock when he arrived there, and as he knew that the last train to Scarhaven left at half-past-nine he hurried to get a fast motor-car that would take him over the last twenty miles of his journey. He had wired to Audrey from Peterborough, telling her that he was on his way and should motor out from Norcaster, and when he had found a car to his liking he ordered its driver to go straight to Mrs. Greyle's cottage, close by Scarhaven church. And just then he heard a voice calling his name, and turning saw, running out of the station, a young, athletic-looking man, much wrapped and cloaked, who waved a hand at him and whose face he had some dim notion of having seen before.

"Mr. Copplestone?" panted the new arrival, coming up hurriedly. "I almost missed you—I got on the wrong platform to meet your train. You don't know me, though you may have seen me at the inquest on Mr. Bassett Oliver the other day—my name's Vickers—Guy Vickers."

"Yes?" said Copplestone. "And—"

"I'm a solicitor, here in Norcaster," answered Vickers. "I—at least, my firm, you know—we sometimes act for Mrs. Greyle at Scarhaven. I got a wire from Miss Greyle late this evening, asking me to meet you here when the London train got in and to go on to Scarhaven with you at once. She added the words urgent business so—"

"Then in heaven's name, let's be off!" exclaimed Copplestone. "It'll take us a good hour and a quarter as it is. Of course," he went on, as they moved away through the Norcaster streets, "of course, you haven't any notion of what this urgent business is?"

"None whatever!" replied Vickers. "But I'm quite sure that it is urgent, or Miss Greyle wouldn't have said so. No—I don't know what her exact meaning was, but of course, I know there's something wrong about the whole thing at Scarhaven—seriously wrong!"

"You do, eh?" exclaimed Copplestone. "What now?"

"Ah, that I don't know!" replied Vickers, with a dry laugh. "I wish I did. But—you know how people talk in these provincial places—ever since that inquest there have been all sorts of rumours. Every club and public place in Norcaster has been full of talk—gossip, surmise, speculation. Naturally!"

"But—about what?" asked Copplestone.

"Squire Greyle, of course," said the young solicitor; "that inquest was enough to set the whole country talking. Everybody thinks—they couldn't think otherwise—that something is being hushed up. Everybody's agog to know if Sir Cresswell Oliver and Mr. Petherton are applying for a re-opening of the inquest. You've just come from town, I believe! Did you hear anything?"

Copplestone was wondering whether he ought to tell his companion of his own recent discoveries. Like all laymen, he had an idea that you can tell anything to a lawyer, and he was half-minded to pour out the whole story to Vickers, especially as he was Mrs. Greyle's solicitor. But on second thoughts he decided to wait until he had ascertained the state of affairs at Scarhaven.

"I didn't hear anything about that," he replied. "Of course, that inquest was a mere travesty of what such an inquiry should have been."

"Oh, an utter farce!" agreed Vickers. "However, it produced just the opposite effect to that which the wire-pullers wanted. Of course, Chatfield had squared that jury! But he forgot the press—and the local reporters were so glad to get hold of what was really spicy news that all the Norcaster and Northborough papers have been full of it. Everybody's talking of it, as I said—people are asking what this evidence from America is; why was there such mystery about the whole thing, and so on. And, since then, everybody knows that Squire Greyle has left Scarhaven."

"Have you seen Mrs. or Miss Greyle since the inquest?" asked Copplestone, who was anxious to keep off subjects on which he might be supposed to possess information. "Have you been over there?"

"No—not since that day," replied Vickers. "And I don't care how soon we do see them, for I'm a bit anxious about this telegram. Something must have happened."

Copplestone looked out of the window on his side of the car. Already they were clear of the Norcaster streets and on the road which led to Scarhaven. That road ran all along the coast, often at the very edge of the high, precipitous cliffs, with no more between it and the rocks far beneath than a low wall. It was a road of dangerous curves and corners which needed careful negotiation even in broad daylight, and this was a black, moonless and starless night. But Copplestone had impressed upon his driver that he must get to Scarhaven as quickly as possible, and he and his companion were both so full of their purpose that they paid no heed to the perpetual danger which they ran as the car tore round propections and down deep cuts at a speed which at other times they would have considered suicidal. And at just under the hour they ran on the level stretch by the "Admiral's Arms" and looking down at the harbour saw the lighted port-holes of some ship which lay against the south quay, and on the quay itself men moving about in the glare of lamps.

"What's going on there?" said Vickers. "Late for a vessel to be loading at a place like this where time's of no great importance."

Copplestone offered no suggestion. He was hotly impatient to reach the cottage, and as soon as the car drew up at its gate he burst out, bade the driver wait, and ran eagerly up to the path to Audrey, who opened the door as he advanced. In another second he had both her hands in his own—and kept them there.

"You're all right?" he demanded in tones which made clear to the girl how anxious he had been. "There's nothing wrong—with you or your mother—personally, I mean? You see, I didn't get your wire until this afternoon, and then I raced off as quick—"

"I know," she said, responding a little to the pressure of his hands. "I understand. You may be sure I shouldn't have wired if I hadn't felt it absolutely necessary. Somebody was wanted—and you'd made me promise, and so—Yes," she continued, drawing back as Vickers came up, "we are all right, personally, but—there's something very wrong indeed somewhere. Will you both come in and see mother?"

Mrs. Greyle, looking worn and ill, appeared just then in the hall, and called to them to come in. She preceded them into the parlour and turned to the young men as soon as Audrey closed the door.

"I'm more thankful to see you gentlemen than I've ever been in my life—for anything!" she said. "Something is happening here which needs the attention of men—we women can't do anything. Let me tell you what it is. Yesterday morning, very early the Squire's steam-yacht, the Pike, was brought into the inner harbour and moored against the quay just opposite the park gates. We, of course, could see it, and as we knew he had gone away we wondered why it was brought in there. After it had been moored, we saw that preparations of some sort were being made. Then men—estate labourers—began coming down from the house, carrying packing-cases, which were taken on board. And while this was going on, Mrs. Peller, the housekeeper, came hurrying here, in a state of great consternation. She said that a number of men, sailors and estate men, were packing up and removing all the most valuable things in the house—the finest pictures, the old silver, the famous collection of china which Stephen John Greyle made—and spent thousands upon thousands of pounds in making!—the rarest and most valuable books out of the library—all sorts of things of real and great value. Everything was being taken down to the Pike—and the estate carpenter, who was in charge of all this, said it was by the Squire's orders, and produced to Mrs. Peller his written authority. Of course, Mrs. Peller could do nothing against that, but she came hurrying to tell us, because she, like everybody else, is much exercised by these recent events. And so Audrey and I pocketed our pride, and went to see Peter Chatfield. But Peter Chatfield, like his master, had gone! He had left home the previous evening, and his house was locked up."

Copplestone and Vickers exchanged glances, and the young solicitor signed Mrs. Greyle to proceed.

"Then," she added, "to add to that, as we came away from Chatfield's house, we met Mr. Elkin, the bank-manager from Norcaster. He had come over in a motor-car, to see me—privately. He wanted to tell me—in relation to all these things—that within the last few days, the Squire and Peter Chatfield had withdrawn from the bank the very large balances of two separate accounts. One was the Squire's own account, in his name—the other was an estate account, on which Chatfield could draw. In both cases the balances withdrawn were of very large amount. Of course, as Mr. Elkin pointed out, it was all in order, and no objection could be raised. But it was unusual, for a large balance had always existed on both these accounts. And, Mr. Elkin added, so many strange rumours are going about Norcaster and the district, that he felt seriously uneasy, and thought it his duty to see me at once. And now—what is to be done? The house is being stripped of the best part of its valuables, and in my opinion when that yacht sails it will be for some foreign port. What other object can there be in taking these things away? Of course, as nothing is entailed, and there are no heirlooms, everything is absolutely the Squire's property, so—"

Copplestone, who had been realizing the serious significance of these statements, saw that it was time to speak, if energetic methods were to be taken at once.

"I'd better tell you the truth," he said interrupting Mrs. Greyle. "I might have told you, Vickers, as we came along, but I decided to wait, until we got here and found out how things were. Mrs. Greyle, the man you speak of as the Squire, is no more the owner of Scarhaven than I am! He is not Marston Greyle at all. The real Marston Greyle who came over from America, died the day after he landed, in lodgings at Bristol to which Peter Chatfield and his daughter had taken him, and he is buried in a Bristol cemetery under the name of Mark Grey; Gilling and I found that out during these last few days. It's an absolute fact. So the man who has been posing here as the rightful owner is—an impostor!"

A dead silence followed this declaration. The mother and daughter after one long look at Copplestone turned and looked at each other. But Vickers, quick to realize the situation, started from his seat, with evident intention of doing something.

"That's—the truth?" he exclaimed, turning to Copplestone. "No possible flaw in it?"

"None," replied Copplestone. "It's sheer fact."

"Then in that case," said Vickers, "Miss Greyle is the owner of Scarhaven, of everything in the house, of every stick, stone and pebble, about the place! And we must act at once. Miss Greyle, you will have to assert yourself. You must do what I tell you to do. You must get ready at once—this minute!—and come down with me and Mrs. Greyle to that yacht and stop all these proceedings. In our presence you must lay claim to everything that's been taken from the house—yes, and to the yacht itself. Come, let's hurry!"

Audrey hesitated and looked at Mrs. Greyle.

"Very well," she said quietly. "But—not my mother."

"No need!" said Vickers. "You will have us with you."

Audrey hurried from the room, and Mrs. Greyle turned anxiously to Vickers.

"What shall you do?" she asked.

"Warn all concerned," answered Vickers, with a snap of the jaw which showed Copplestone that he was a man of determination. "Warn them, if necessary, that the man they have known as Marston Greyle is an impostor, and that everything they are handling belongs to Miss Greyle. The Scarhaven people know me, of course—there ought not to be any great difficulty with them—and as regards the yacht people—"

"You know," interrupted Mrs. Greyle, "that this man—the impostor—has made himself very popular with the people here? You saw how they cheered him after the inquest? You don't think there is danger in Audrey going down there?"

"Wouldn't it be enough if you and I went?" suggested Copplestone. "It's very late to drag Miss Greyle out."

"I'm sorry, but it's absolutely necessary," said Vickers. "If your story is true—I mean, of course, since it is true—Miss Greyle is owner and mistress, and she must be on the spot. It's all we can do, anyway," he continued, as Audrey, wrapped in a big ulster, came back to the parlour. "Even now we may be too late. And if that yacht once sails away from here—"

There were signs that the yacht's departure was imminent when they went down to the south quay and came abreast of her. The lights on the shore were being extinguished; the estate labourers were gone; only two or three sailors were busy with ropes and gear. And Vickers hurried his little party up a gangway and on to the deck. A hard-faced, keen-eyed, man, evidently in authority, came forward.

"Are you the captain of this vessel?" demanded Vickers in tones of authority. "You are? I am Mr. Vickers, solicitor, of Norcaster. I give you formal warning that the man you have known as Marston Greyle is not Marston Greyle at all, but an impostor. All the property which you have removed from the house, and now have on this vessel, belongs to this lady, Miss Audrey Greyle, Lady of the Manor of Scarhaven. It is at your peril that you move it, or that you cause this vessel to leave this harbour. I claim the vessel and all that is on it on behalf of Miss Greyle."

The man addressed listened in silent attention, and showed no sign of any surprise. As soon as Vickers had finished he turned, hurried down a stairway, remained below for a few minutes, and came up again.

"Will you kindly step this way, Miss Greyle and gentlemen?" he said politely. "You must remember that I am only a servant. If you will come down—"

He led them down the stairs, along a thickly-carpeted passage, and opened the door of a lighted saloon. All unthinking, the three stepped in—to hear the door closed and locked behind them.

CHAPTER XX
THE COURTEOUS CAPTAIN

Vickers sprang back at that door as the sharp click of the turning key caught his ear, and Copplestone, preceding him and following Audrey, who had advanced fearlessly into the cabin, pulled himself up with a sudden, sickening sense of treachery. The two young men looked at each other, and a dead silence fell on them and the girl. Then Vickers laid his hand on the door and shook it.

"Locked in!" he muttered with a queer glance at his companions. "What does that mean?"

"Nothing good!" growled Copplestone who was secretly cursing his own folly in allowing Audrey to leave the quay. "We're trapped!—that's what it means. Why we're trapped isn't a question that matters very much under the circumstances—the serious thing is that we certainly are trapped."

Vickers turned to Audrey.

"My fault!" he said contritely. "All my fault! But I meant it for the best—it was the thing to do—and who on earth could have foreseen this. Look here!—we've got to think pretty quick, Copplestone, that captain, now? Has he done this on his own hook, or—is there somebody on board who's at the top of things?"

"I don't see any good in thinking quick, or asking one's self questions," replied Copplestone. "We're locked in here. We've got Miss Greyle into this mess—and her mother will be anxious and alarmed. I wish we'd let this confounded yacht go where it liked before ever we'd—"

"Don't!" broke in Audrey. "That's no good. Mr. Vickers certainly did what he felt to be best—and who could foresee this? And I'm not afraid—and as for my mother, if we don't return very soon, why, she knows where we are and there are police in Scarhaven, and—"

"How long are we going to be where we are?" asked Copplestone, grimly. "The thing's moving!"

There was no doubt of that very pertinent fact. Somewhere beneath them, machinery began to work; above them there was hurry and scurry as ropes and stays were thrown off. But so beautifully built was that yacht, and so almost sound-proof the luxurious cabin in which they were prisoners, that little of the noise of departure came to them. However, there was no mistaking the increasing throb of the engines nor the fact that the vessel was moving, and Vickers suddenly sprang on a lounge seat and moved away a silken screen which curtained a port-hole window.

"There's no doubt of that!" he exclaimed.

"We're going through the outer harbour—we've passed the light at the end of the quay. What do these people mean by carrying us out to sea? Copplestone!—with all submission to you—whether it's relevant or not, I wish we knew more of that captain chap!"

"I know him," remarked Audrey. "I have been on this yacht before. His name is Andrius. He's an American—or American-Norwegian, or something like that."

"And the crew?" asked Vickers. "Are they Scarhaven men?"

"No," replied Audrey. "There isn't a Scarhaven man amongst them. My cousin—I mean—you know whom I mean—bought this yacht just as it stood, from an American millionaire early this spring, and he took over the captain, crew, and everything."

"So—we're in the hands of strangers!" exclaimed Vickers, while Copplestone dug his hands into his pockets and began to stamp about. "I wish I'd known all that before we came on board."

"But what harm can they do us?" said Audrey, incredulous of danger. "You don't suppose they'll want to murder us, surely! My own belief is that we never should have been locked up here if you hadn't let them know how much we know, Mr. Vickers."

"Let them—I don't understand," said Vickers, turning a puzzled glance on her.

"Why," replied Audrey with a laugh which convinced both men of her fearlessness, "you let the captain see that we know a great deal and he thereupon ran downstairs—presumably to tell somebody of what you said. And—here's the result!"

"You think, then—" suggested Vickers. "You think that—"

"I think the somebody—whoever he is—wants to know exactly how much we do know," answered Audrey with another laugh. "And so we're being carried off to be cross-examined—at somebody's leisure. Let's hope they won't use thumb-screws and that sort of thing. And anyway," she continued, looking from one to the other, "hadn't we better make the best of it? We're going out to sea, that's certain—here's the bar!"

A sudden lifting of the thickly-carpeted floor, a dip to the left, another to the right, a plunge forward, a drop back, then a settling down to a steady persistent roll, showed her companions that Audrey was right—the yacht was crossing the bar which lay at the mouth of Scarhaven Bay. Outside that lay the North Sea, and Copplestone suddenly wondered which course the vessel was going to take, north, east, or south. But before he could put his thoughts into words, the door was suddenly unlocked, and Captain Andrius, suave, polite, deprecating, walked into the cabin.

"A thousands pardons—and two words of explanation!" he exclaimed, as he executed a deep bow to his lady prisoner. "First—Miss Greyle, I have sent a message to your mother that you are quite safe and will join her in due course. Second—this is merely a temporary detention—you shall all be landed—all in good time."

Vickers as a legal man, assumed his most professional air.

"Do you know what you are rendering yourself liable to, sir, by detaining us at all?" he demanded. "An action—"

Captain Andrius bowed again; again assumed his deprecating smile. He waved the two men to seats and himself took a chair with his back to the door by which he entered.

"My dear sir!" he said courteously. "You forget that I am but a servant. I am under orders. However, I give my word that no harm shall come to you, that you shall be treated with every polite attention, and that you shall be landed."

"When—and where?" asked Vickers.

"Tomorrow, certainly," replied Andrius. "As to where, I cannot exactly say. But—where you will be in touch with—shall we say civilization?"

He showed a set of fine white teeth in such a curious fashion as he spoke the last word that Copplestone and Vickers instinctively glanced at each other, with a mutual instinct of distrust.

"Won't do!" said Vickers. "I insist that you put about and go into Scarhaven again."

Andrius spread out his open palms and shook his head "Impossible!" he answered. "We are already en voyage. Time presses. Be placable—tomorrow you shall be released."

Vickers was about to answer this appeal with an angry refusal to be either placable or tractable, but he suddenly stopped the words which rose to his tongue. There was something in all this—some mystery, some queer game, and it might be worth while to find it out.

"Where are you taking this yacht?" he demanded brusquely. "Come, now!"

"I am under—orders," said Andrius, with another smile.

"Whose orders?" persisted Vickers. "Look here—it's no use trying to burke facts. Who's on board this vessel? You know what I mean. Is the man who calls himself Squire of Scarhaven here?"

Andrius shook his head quietly and gave his questioner a shrewd glance.

"Mr. Vickers," he said meaningly, "I know you! You are a lawyer—though a young one. Lawyers are guarded in their speech. Now—we are alone—we four. No one can hear anything we say. Tell me—is that right what you said to me on deck, that the man who has called himself Marston Greyle is not so at all?"

"Absolutely right," replied Vickers.

"An impostor?" demanded Andrius.

"He is!"

"And never had any right to—anything?"

"No right whatever!"

"Then," said Andrius, with a polite inclination of his head and shoulders to Audrey, "the truth is that everything of the Scarhaven property belongs to this lady?"

"Everything!" exclaimed Vickers. "Land, houses, furniture, valuables—everything. All the property which you have on this yacht—pictures, china, silver, books, objects of art, as I am instructed, removed from the house—are Miss Greyle's sole property. Once more I warn you of what you are doing, and I demand that you immediately return to Scarhaven. This very yacht belongs to Miss Greyle!"

Andrius nodded, looked fixedly at the young solicitor for a moment, and then rose.

"I am obliged to you," he said. "That, of course, is your claim. But—the other one, eh? It seems to me there might be something to be said for that, you know? So, all I can do is to renew my assurance of polite attention, offer you our best accommodation—which is luxurious—and promise to land you—somewhere—tomorrow. Miss Greyle, we have two women servants on board—I shall send them to you at once and they will attend to you—please consider them your own. You, gentlemen, will perhaps join me in my quarters?—I have two spare cabins close to my own which are at your service."

Copplestone and Vickers looked at each other and at Audrey—undecided and vaguely suspicious. But Audrey was evidently neither alarmed nor uneasy—she nodded a ready assent to the Captain's proposal.

"Thank you, Captain Andrius," she said coolly. "I know the two women. You may send one of them. Do what he suggests," she murmured, turning to Copplestone, who had moved close to her, "I'm not one scrap afraid of anything—and it's only until tomorrow. He'll land us—I'm sure of it."

There was nothing for it, then, but to follow Andrius to his own comfortable quarters. There, utterly ignoring the strange circumstances under which they met, he played the part of host with genuine desire to make his guests feel at ease, and when he showed them to their berths, a little later, he emphasized his assurance of their absolute safety and liberty.

"You see, gentlemen, your movements are untrammelled," he said. "You can go in and out of your quarters as you like. You can go where you like on the yacht tomorrow morning. There is no restriction on you. Sleep well—and tomorrow you are all free again, eh?"

Copplestone got a word or two with Vickers—alone.

"What do you think?" he muttered. "Shall you sleep?"

"My impression—for I know what you're thinking about," said Vickers, "is that Miss Greyle's as safe as if she were in her mother's house! She's no fear, herself, anyway. There's some mystery, somewhere, and I can't make this Andrius man out at all, but I believe all's right as regards personal safety. There's Miss Greyle's cabin, anyhow, right opposite ours—and I can keep an eye and an ear open even when I'm asleep!"

But in spite of these assurances, Copplestone slept little. He was up, dressed, and on deck by sunrise, staring around him in a fresh autumn morning to get some notion of the yacht's whereabouts, and he had just managed to make out a mere filmy line of land far to the westward when Audrey appeared at his elbow. There was no one of any importance near them and Copplestone impulsively seized her hands.

"I've scarcely slept!" he blurted out, gazing intently at her.

"Couldn't! Blaming myself for letting you get into this confounded mess!

You're all right?"

Audrey responded a little to the pressure of his hands before she disengaged her own.

"It wasn't your fault," she said. "It's nobody's fault. Don't blame Mr. Vickers—he couldn't foresee this. Yes, I'm all right—and I slept like a top. What's the use of worrying? Do you know," she went on, lowering her voice and drawing nearer to him, "I believe something's going to come of all this—something that'll clear matters up once and for all."

"Why?" asked Copplestone, wonderingly. "What makes you think that?"

"Don't know—instinct, intuitiveness, perhaps," she answered. "Besides—I'm dead certain we're not the only people—I don't mean crew and Captain—aboard the Pike. I believe there's somebody else. There's some mystery, anyway. Keep that to yourself," she said as Andrius and Vickers appeared from below. "Don't show any sign—wait to see how things turn out."

She turned away from him to greet the other two as unconcernedly as if there were nothing unusual in the situation, and Copplestone marvelled at her coolness. He himself, not so well equipped with patience, was feverishly anxious to know how things would turn out, and when. But the day went by and nothing happened, except that Captain Andrius was very polite to his guests and that the yacht, a particularly fast sailer, continued to make headway through the grey seas, sometimes in bare sight of land and sometimes out of it. To one or two inquiries as to the fulfilment of his promise Andrius made no more answer than a reassuring nod; once when Vickers pressed him, he replied curtly that the day was not yet over. Vickers drew Copplestone aside on hearing that.

"Look here!" he said. "I've been reckoning things up as near as I can. I make out that we've been running due north, or north-east ever since we left Scarhaven last night. I reckon, too, that this vessel makes quite twenty-two or three, knots an hour. We must be off the extreme north-east coast of Scotland. And night's coming on!"

"There are ports there that he can put into," said Copplestone. "The thing is—will he keep his promise? Remember!—he must know very well that if we once land anywhere within reach of a telegraph office, we can wire particulars about him to every port in the world if we like—and he's got to go somewhere, eventually, you know."

Vickers shook his head as if this were a problem he would give up. It was beyond him, he said, to even guess at what Andrius was after, or what was going to happen. And nothing did happen until, as the three prisoners sat at dinner with their polite gaoler, the Pike came to a sudden stop and hung gently on a quiet sea. Andrius looked up and smiled.

"A pleasant night for your landing," he remarked. "Don't hurry—but there will be a boat ready for you as soon as dinner is over."

"And where are we?" asked Vickers.

"That, my dear sir, you will see when you land." replied Andrius. "You will, at any rate, be quite comfortable for the night, and in the morning, I think, you will be able to journey—wherever you wish to go to."

There was something in the smile which accompanied the last words which made Copplestone uneasy. But the prospect of regaining their liberty was too good—he kept his own counsel. And half-an-hour later, he, Audrey and Vickers, stood on deck, looking down on a boat alongside, in which were two or three of the crew and a man holding a lanthorn. In front was the dark sea, and ahead a darker mass which they took to be land.

"You won't tell us what this place is?" said Vickers as he was about to follow the others into the boat. "It's on the mainland, of course?"

"The morning light, my good sir, will show you everything," replied Andrius. "Be content that I have kept my promise—you have come off luckily," he added with a significant look.

Vickers felt a strange sense of alarm as the boat left the yacht. He noticed two or three suspicious circumstances. As soon as they got away, he saw that all the yacht's lights had been or were being darkened or entirely obscured; at a dozen boat lengths they could see her no more. Then a boat, swiftly pulled, passed them in the darkness, evidently coming from the shore to which they were being taken: it, too, carried no light. Nor were there any lights on the shore itself; all there was in utter blackness. They were on the shingle within a quarter of an hour; within a minute or two the yachtsmen had helped all three on to the beach, had carried up certain boxes and packages which had been placed in the boat, had set down the lighted lanthorn, jumped into the boat again and vanished in the darkness. And in the silence, broken only by the drip of water from the retreating oars, and by the scarcely-noticed ripple of the waves, Audrey voiced exactly what her two companions felt.