Mr. Grant said nothing. He hoped that his eyesight was playing him false, but he doubted it.
"She's gone, sir!" corroborated Brandon.
"Harbour master's shifted her, perhaps," suggested the Scoutmaster, quickening his pace.
The Puffin's berth was empty. There was her bow warp still made fast to a bollard. Hauling in the rope the Sea-Scouts made the discovery that it had parted—the frayed ends showing no sign of having been cut by a knife.
A further search revealed the sternfast. In this case the rope was intact, but at one end was a wooden cleat with screws attached.
"She's broken adrift," exclaimed the Patrol-leader. "What's the anchor doing?"
"We'll go to the pier-head and see if we can spot the yacht," said Mr. Grant. "Craddock must have heard the yacht parting her warps, even if he were asleep in the cabin. Perhaps he brought up round the corner."
But no. Seaward there was nothing but an ill-defined expanse of dark water and hissing rain.
"Back to the swing-bridge, lads!" exclaimed the Scoutmaster. "Keep a look-out in case the Puffin's alongside the opposite quay."
The bridge-keeper on being questioned was emphatic that no yacht had passed through, and that he had only once opened the bridge that night, to admit a Norwegian timber ship.