"I think so, my dear," answered her father absent-mindedly. "I wish, Jack, that you had observed more carefully the carvings on that colonnade. It may be truly ancient or— What? What is it, Betty?"
She deftly frisked him, and examined his automatic.
"Yes, it's all right," she said, returning it to him. "And for Heaven's sake remember, Dad, that the safety lock is on. Here's an extra clip. Watkins?"
Watkins set down the tray of coffee-cups, and cautiously hauled his weapon from his hip-pocket.
"Quite right, I think, ma'am, Miss King," he replied.
"Here's an extra clip for you, too. Boys?"
"You don't catch old campaigners like us with empty weapons," I jeered. "It isn't we who'll be getting into trouble."
"I wish I could be sure of that," she retorted. "Most likely I'll be trying to pull you out of a scrape twenty-four hours from now. But let's get started. We have a car at the side entrance to run us down to the Man-o'-war Landing, where the Curlew is moored."
If the spies were still watching the hotel, as I have no doubt they were, we gave them the slip. We went downstairs together, and shot into the closed car which was in waiting, Watkins sitting beside the chauffeur. Ten minutes later we drew up on the Curlew's dock, secure from observation because of the British marine sentries who stood guard at the dock-gates.
The Curlew was a handy craft, decked over forward, with a roomy cockpit and a good, heavy-duty Mercedes engine. She was nothing to look at, but reliable and efficient. Betty, who was an experienced yachtswoman, automatically assumed command, and Hugh and Watkins as automatically accepted the rôle of crew. Vernon King, Nikka and I tried to be as inconspicuous as possible.