CHAPTER VIII
The "Titania" Sails
Filled with the deepest apprehensions concerning the fate of his chum, Bobby Beverley was not content to think. He acted.
As it was yet early in the morning, and a Sunday, there were no signs of activity in the yacht-yard. The night watchman, his duties over with the rising of the sun, had taken himself home; the watchkeepers on board the various craft were still sleeping soundly in the knowledge that there was no pressing need for them to turn out.
Slipping over the side, Beverley gained the wharf. There were no signs of a struggle, and the hoar-frost that covered the tarred planking was destitute of human or canine foot-prints. Only a number of triangular marks on the white covering showed that sea-birds had been waddling about the jetty.
Suddenly Beverley caught sight of a crumpled paper that had wedged in a projection of a heap of rusty iron. It was the telegraph-form that Villiers had gone ashore to receive when he was struck down by a cowardly blow. On it were the words:—
"Harborough, yacht Titania. Cannot keep appointment Monday. Will Tuesday same time suit?
"Heatherington."
"H'm; no postmark," commented Bobby. "Looks like a plant. Wonder if this has anything to do with Villiers' absence?"
Folding the crumpled paper, Beverley placed it carefully in his pocket-book. Then, making his way across the encumbered yard, he stopped outside the manager's office. As he expected, the door was locked securely, but Beverley was not going to stick at trifles.