"And the spy? Does he know that you are aware of his crime?"
"I think not, sir. He recognised me as one of the 'Pompey's' officers, but I said nothing to lead him to believe I had overheard his conversation with the mysterious count. He admitted that he was a deserter, and braved it out. Before we could get to business—the discovery that he had chucked his bomb overboard rather took the wind out of my sails—the 'Nordby' bumped into a mine."
"Very good. Now, Mr. Tressidar, will you kindly write out a detailed report of what occurred between the count and the spy, and I'll see that it is forwarded to the proper quarter. After that you can stand easy until Thursday. You look as if a good square meal or two will do you good."
The genial Irishman shook hands with his subordinate and did him the honour of asking him to dinner that evening. The sub. could not refuse, although he rather dreaded the ceremonious meal. Also he had made other plans, but he realised that it does not do to refuse a rear-admiral's invitation.
Arrayed in a borrowed mess uniform, since his gear was, as far as he was aware, still on board the "Heracles," Tressidar arrived at the admiral's official residence—a large, old-fashioned mansion standing on the side of a hill overlooking the harbour.
The ponderous repast proceeded slowly and smoothly, course after course was consumed, and by the time the wine was placed upon the table conversation was flowing briskly.
The room was brilliantly lighted with hundreds of candles, imparting an old-world aspect to the uniformed company. The windows, heavily curtained, shut out the light mist that was creeping in from seaward.
"Gentlemen!" exclaimed the senior officer, rapping the table with his mallet. "The King."
According to time-honoured custom, when the height of the deck-beams on board a man-of-war prevented the loyal toasts to be drunk standing, the guests, still sitting, raised their glasses.
Even as they did so a loud crash, quickly followed by another and another, broke the silence.