"No, and if anything much had gone wrong, I think—at least, there's a strong probability—they would spot it sooner or later and report to me."
"Obviously, we have done all we can for the present," said Vernon King. "Hugh's suggestion is a good one. Perhaps food and a rest will sharpen our wits."
We went to the Kings' sitting room, where we had breakfasted that morning, and sat down wearily, discouraged, disheartened, more than a little dismayed. But as my uncle had said, food and wine and black coffee brightened our despondency. We were on the point of deciding that the best policy would be to risk dividing forces, sending Hugh and Vernon King on a chartered boat to scour near-by waters, while Nikka and I attempted to investigate Sokaki Masyeri, when Watkins entered unannounced.
He was very pale. His collar was streaked with blood. There was an ugly bump on the side of his head. He dragged one foot after the other.
"Oh, your ludship," he murmured, and dropped into a chair.
At once he strove to regain his feet, but collapsed again.
"I beg pardon, I'm sure, your ludship—no disrespect intended—fair dead beat I am, sir—my 'ead and all—"
Hugh seized a glass of champagne and carried it to him, holding the glass to his lips.
"Where is—" Hugh's tongue boggled Betty's name.
"They—they've—took 'er, your ludship," answered Watkins faintly.