"Right-o," he agreed. "Jones!"
"Sir!" replied a muffled voice from the fo'c'sle.
"Bring me my pack of cards, will you?"
Terence heard the unmistakable sounds of someone trying to open a jammed door. Then, after a moment's delay the fo'c'sle sliding door was thrust open and the seaman thrust his dishevelled head into the cabin.
"Sorry, sir," he reported, "but the blessed condensed milk has gone and upset itself all over the pack."
"That's kippered our game," remarked Waynsford. "Let's turn out and see what it's like. A stretch before breakfast will do us good."
Donning their great-coats, the three officers contrived, without mishap, to leap from the heeling side of the motor-boat to the rungs of the ladder.
"Beastly foggy morning," declared Nalder.
"Just getting light enough to see," added Waynsford, as, in contradiction to his statement, he stumbled and almost fell over a mooring rope.
Gradually the gaunt outlines of the ruined castle that towered high above the harbour began to grow distinct against the grey sky. The fog began to disperse, although the cliffs to the southern end of the town were still invisible.