"Can't see or hear any water coming in," said Mr. Gregory, after a brief examination. "It must be the lap of the waves outside, or——"
The thud of the sliding door being hurriedly slammed interrupted his words. He turned to find himself alone. Simultaneously the click of the lock informed him the door was not only shut, but secured. He tried the fore-hatch. Not only was it in place, but it was held down by a strong metal bar padlocked to the deck.
"Brandon, come below a minute!" exclaimed Peter.
The Patrol-leader, alarmed by Craddock's earnest tones, handed the tiller to Carline and gained the cabin.
"I've locked him in," announced Peter.
"What for?" demanded the perplexed Brandon.
"'Cause he's a wrong 'un," was the astonishing reply. "He's not a Scoutmaster. He's a smuggler. That stuff we took off that boat is cocaine. He tried to fool us with a forged letter from Mr. Grant; he jiggered the motor so as to keep us out at sea till midnight, and——"
"Enough of that silly joking, Craddock!" came the voice of the prisoner through the bulkhead. "Open the door at once."
Peter made no reply.
"I couldn't warn you before, Frank," he continued, addressing the Patrol-leader. "If I'm wrong I'll take all responsibility, anyway. There's another thing. While we were stowing canvas he was signalling to the strange vessel. It wasn't Morse. I could have read it if it were, as you know, and their reply wasn't Morse either. It was a secret code."