"None," Richard assented coolly.
Selingman suddenly struck the table with his clenched fist.
"You were not alone up in that gallery!"
"Getting warm, aren't you?" Richard murmured.
Selingman turned to Grex.
"This young man is Hunterleys' friend. They've fixed this up between them. Listen!"
A door slammed above their heads. Some one had left the music gallery.
"Hunterleys himself!" Selingman cried.
"Sure!" Richard assented. "Bright fellow, Selingman," he continued amiably. "I wouldn't try that on, if I were you," he added, turning to Mr. Grex, whose hand was slowly stealing from the back of his coat. "That sort of thing doesn't do, nowadays. Revolvers belong to the last decade of intrigue. You're a bit out of date with that little weapon. Don't be foolish. I am not angry with any of you. I am willing to take this little joke pleasantly, but——"
He raised a whistle to his lips and blew it. The door at the further end of the saloon was opened as though by magic. A steward in the yacht's uniform appeared. From outside was visible a very formidable line of sailors. Grex, with a swift gesture, slipped something back into his pocket, something which glittered like silver.