"Are you a plain-clothes man, sir?" inquired the sailor, awed.
"Yes," said Amberley without hesitation.
"Well, there's Mr. Benson's racing motorboat, and she's half full, I know. He had her out today, but I don't know as how…"
"Ten pounds!" Amberley snapped.
"Right you are, sir, and you takes the blame!" said sailor, and let him into the yard.
The racing motorboat was moored some fifty yards out. The sailor, having taken the plunge, seemed to realise that the need for haste was desperate and led Amberley at a trot to the steps. In less than a minute both men were in the dinghy that was tied up there and the sailor had cast off and shipped the oars.
The motorboat was covered with a tarpaulin, which was quickly stripped off. The sailor climbed into the well and started the engine. "She's warm, sir," he said. "Lucky, ain't you?"
Amberley was at the wheel. "I hope so," he said curtly.
The boat forged ahead, threading her way between the craft moored in the harbour. The sailor, perceiving that his odd passenger knew how to steer, took heart and needed no urging, once clear of the harbour, to speed the boat up. White foam began to churn up under the bows, the engine took on a deeper note.
The sea looked silver in the moonlight, deserted. Amberley held a course to the south-west, steering for a point out at sea where he judged he would overhaul the slower boat. The minutes crept by; to Amberley they seemed like hours. The noise of the engine thundered in his ears; he made a sign to the other man to shut it down.