“I am sorry I have offended you,” I said, “but I am afraid that was inevitable. You would have done better to trust me. Anyway, I am in this case and I intend to solve the problem it presents. If it is to be war between us—”
“I do not understand you, Mr. Holt.”
“Let it be war, then, and we’ll fight it out.”
And I continued on my way, still dragging my stick behind me.
CHAPTER XV
ON RONALD THOYNE’S YACHT
Ilbay we discovered to be a very tiny village, hardly more than a cluster of cottages, a small inn and a church.
There was a jetty, built of stone in a rough-and-tumble fashion that clearly betokened amateur workmanship, and flanked on either side by a semi-circular sweep of sandy beach that ended in a jumble of rocks lying at the bases of tall cliffs. The road came over the hills after threading its way through vast moorlands and dipped steeply down to the village and the sea.
“The yacht is still here,” Pepster announced, on his return from what he described as “an early morning prowl round.”
“Can we get a boat?” I asked.
“I have already annexed one,” Pepster replied. “We mustn’t waste time in this case. The yacht may up-anchor and steam off at any minute. The boat is ready and the men are waiting.”