"What d'ye say, mate?" demanded the first speaker among the crew.
"I'm telling you the truth," vociferated Marchmont, lying boldly; for he feared that the Bishop's conspiracies would go for nothing if they suspected he was really a churchman.
"I'm telling you the truth," he repeated. "And these two gentlemen," referring to the mate and the tramp, "will back me up. That man's no more the Bishop of Blanford than you are! And the lady—well, she's on the stage when she isn't in the pay of the Spanish Government. I've tracked them from the States to Canada, where I saw them both a month ago, and then to England. I don't say how they got hold of this yacht, but I ask you, where's the captain and the first mate?"
A growl of suspicion rewarded his efforts.
"They took pretty good care to get out of the way, and leave Mr. Funk and you to bear the brunt of any breach of neutrality that these conspirators might let you in for."
The sailors began to whisper to one another, and were evidently uneasy.
"Then look at the captain's parting words!" cried the journalist. "'Go out into the Solent,' says he, 'and the Bishop will give you your sailing orders,' Sailing orders, indeed! What would a parson know about sailing a vessel of this sort?"
One of the men nudged another at this, and he of the gruff voice gave it as his opinion that "there was summat in it."
"I'll tell you what the sailing orders will be," shouted Marchmont. "They'll take you round the Needles, and alongside of a Spanish cruiser. And when you get ashore, you'll all be clapped into prison for helping the Dons."
"Let's take 'em back now," came a chorus of voices.