"That's the reward of patience! I only twaddled, you juggins, to give you a chance to feed. You did both look awfully done up. The hue of health is returning now. Fire away, then!"
Warrender, between the mouthfuls, related the experiences of the night, Pratt showing unusual self-restraint as a listener.
"My poor old uncle!" he exclaimed at the conclusion of the story. "He can't be convicted as an accessory, can he?"
"Of course not," replied Warrender. "No one could hold him responsible for what his foreign crew are doing in his absence. It's a pity you don't know where he's gone. A cable or a Marconigram would bring him home post-haste."
"I might, perhaps, ask Gradoff for his last address."
"The less we have to do with Gradoff the better, until we have got to the bottom of the business. Just run down to the boat, will you, and bring up our map."
The scale of the map was two inches to the mile. A moment's examination proved that the tower, marked on the map, lay within a radius of one-eighth of a mile from the island.
"There isn't much doubt that the far end of the tunnel is under the tower," said Warrender. "The house is a trifle beyond. Didn't you ever hear of the smugglers' passage, Percy?"
"Never. All I know about it is the tradition that some one was starved in the tower centuries ago. My sister and I used to play in it as kids; it was a mere ruin then; no roof, no boarding on the windows."
"I wonder if a local guide-book would give any information?" said Armstrong.