“Aye, aye. Scotland Yard launch? Come alongside.”
“Thank God for the Navy, as the soldier said,” Mr. Fortune murmured. “Perhaps it will be warmer on board her.”
“I say, sir, did you order a destroyer out?”
“Oh, I asked Lomas to turn out the Navy. I thought we might want ’em.”
Superintendent Bell gazed at him. “And you say you forget things,” he said. “Witt’s shot and all in a minute you have all this in your head.”
They climbed a most unpleasant ladder. A young lieutenant received them. “You gentlemen got a job of work for us?”
“A motor yacht, cutter rig, name Cyrilla, left Gravesend an hour or two ago, probably making for the Dutch coast. There’s a man on board that’s badly wanted.”
“Can do,” the lieutenant smiled and ran up to the bridge. “Starboard five. Half ahead both.” He spoke into a voice pipe. “You’d better come up here,” he called to them. “We’ll whack her up as we go.”
The destroyer began to quiver gently to the purr of the turbines. Reggie cowered under the wind screen. The speed grew and grew and the destroyer sat down on her stern and on either side white waves rushed from the high sharp bow. “Who is your friend on the yacht?” the lieutenant smiled.
“His last is attempted murder. But that was only this morning.”