It was in fact precisely two nights later, when the ship had drawn within twenty miles of the Irish coast, and was making a direct run for her English port, that Bill, creeping along the deck, sighted a flitting figure.
"Come along," he whispered, running back to the cabin and beckoning Larry and Jim. "I've seen someone—he's down in the waist. Don't wait for anything, and be as quiet as you know how. I reckon we'll discover who he is this time."
They followed instantly, and, sneaking down the ladder, hid themselves beside the windlass, with a mast towering quite close to them, and there, breathless with their haste, their hearts thumping with excitement and expectation, they waited, peering this way and that, seeing nothing for the moment. A little later Bill stretched out a hand and touched Larry on the shoulder.
"There!" he whispered. "There!" and, swinging round, Larry, too, caught a faint impression of a head and shoulders against the star-lit sky. He waited while Jim drew closer and also saw the figure.
Then all three crept along the deck, one behind another, as a man on the far side of it drew away from them.
"Bound for the fo'c'sle," Larry said hoarsely. "It's locked ain't it?"
"Locked," answered Jim laconically. "But he'll have a key. Listen to it!"
There came to their ears the faint click of an instrument being used in the lock of the forecastle door—a gentle, grinding sound, and then silence.
"Come on," whispered Bill; "perhaps he's gone in. Got your flash lamps?"
All three had, and, making their way swiftly along the deck, they soon reached the bulkhead behind which lay the forecastle. The door, previously shut fast and locked, stood ajar. Bill pushed it open without hesitation, Larry pressed up beside him, and Jim peered over their shoulders. Then Bill switched on the beam of his electric torch.