Kenneth Raeburn, who happened to be on watch in the engine-room on Terence's arrival, quickly sought out his chum as soon as he was off duty.
"I hear you've been having a high old time," he exclaimed boisterously. "You always were a lucky chap, old man. Let's hear all about it."
"I'll begin stern-foremost," began Terence, and to Raeburn's astonishment he related the circumstances that culminated in the death of Karl von Eckenhardt.
"By Jove, old man, you'll be lionized over this business!—saving a troop train and settling that bounder."
"I think not," rejoined Terence. "Fact is, I slipped away while they were all busy with the investigations. Didn't want to be detained over a rotten inquest. Don't believe in them myself."
"Neither do I," asserted Raeburn. "I had to attend one once, and the whole thing struck me as an utter farce, beginning with the false evidence of the village bobby and finishing up with the doctor's report. I know for a fact that when he examined the body he was as drunk as a fiddler. But is there anything in the papers?"
"Can't tell," replied Terence. "The bumboat hasn't come alongside yet. Anyway, I don't want you to say a word to anybody about the business; I want to be afloat. Any idea of the programme?"
"Same old game," said Kenneth, with a grin. "Between the south of Iceland and the Faroe Islands. Hullo, here's the bumboat! Now for a paper."
The "Strongbow" was lying about a mile from the West Pier of the port of Leith in company with half a dozen Admiralty craft of various sizes. Communication with the shore was maintained by means of frequent picquet boats, while tradesmen were allowed to supply luxuries to the ships by means of sailing craft known from time immemorial as bumboats.
Terence showed no hurry in securing his copy of the paper, but his interest was none the less acute. Having received one he retired to the seclusion of the deserted smoking-room and opened the damp sheets.