They both stared at Quest, who remained silent, chewing hard at the end of his cigar.
“Every message,” he said, speaking half to himself, “has had some significance. What does this mean—a lifebuoy?”
He was silent for a moment. Then he turned suddenly to the Professor.
“What did you call those men in the motor-truck, Professor—river pirates? And a lifebuoy! Wait.”
He crossed the room towards his desk and returned with a list in his hand. He ran his finger down it, stopped and glanced at the date.
“The Durham,” he muttered, “cargo cotton, destination Southampton, sails at high tide on the 16th. Lenora, is that calendar right?”
“It’s the 16th, Mr. Quest,” she answered.
Quest crossed the room to the telephone.
“I want Number One Central, Exchange,” he said. “Thank you! Put me through to Mr. French’s office…. Hullo, French! I’ve got an idea. Can you come round here at once and bring an automobile? I want to get down to the docks—not where the passenger steamers start from—lower down…. Good! We’ll wait.”
Quest hung up the receiver.