It was half-past two in the morning when the Puffin glided in between the pierheads. Craddock made no attempt to steer for the moorings. He ran the boat alongside the West Pier, the tide being almost full.
There on the jetty was Scoutmaster Grant, together with half-a-dozen Customs Officers and a couple of policemen.
"You got my telegram, sir?" said Peter.
"Rather," replied Mr. Grant. "It puzzled me. I know no one of the name of Gregory."
"You will soon, sir," was the rejoinder. "We've got him safely locked up in the fo'c'sle."
Soon the little Puffin was packed. Before attempting to open the fo'c'sle hatch the Customs Officers took possession of the letters and parcel received from the mysterious yacht. There, sure enough, was sufficient evidence—pure cocaine worth at least a couple of thousand pounds.
Then the fore-hatch was uncovered.
"Come on, Mr. Gregory," exclaimed one of the Customs officials coaxingly. "Let's have a look at you."
Gregory came out as tamely as a lamb. He was wise enough to recognise the futility of resistance.
In a trice he was handcuffed. A deft search revealed no signs of a firearm, nor did a subsequent examination of the fo'c'sle lead to the discovery of a pistol.