"It's all clear, I think," he remarked in an undertone. "The dust seems undisturbed and there's been no wind to level it. I've covered my tracks very carefully in case of accidents."
Quickly undressing, Atherton, with a rope tied round his waist, in case he slipped, made his way down to the water's edge. Casting off the rope, he waited till Phillips joined him, and as noiselessly as the little creatures from which the patrol took its name, the two Scouts slipped into the water.
Not a word was spoken as the lads swam with steady strokes towards the yacht The sea was quite warm, warmer in fact than the air. Both Scouts knew how to swim with the least exertion and without making a splash. They did not hurry, realising that haste in swimming means loss of strength; so, keeping side by side, they made light work of their outward journey.
The mysterious yacht was now riding lightly to her anchor. There was little or no tide; and her cable was, in nautical parlance, "straight up and down." By a fortunate chance, owing no doubt to the slovenliness of her crew rather than to their lack of seamanship, the yacht's bobstay was still hove taut, and this afforded a fine foothold for the two lads.
Atherton could just manage to grasp the bowsprit. Raising his legs, he threw his heels over the low bulwark and contrived to draw himself on deck. He waited, every sense keenly on the alert. All was quiet, save for a muffled conversation in the cabin.
Assisting Phillips on board, the elder lad led the way aft. Their bare feet made no sound upon the dew-sodden decks; and, cautiously picking their way over coils of ropes and avoiding formidable-looking cleats that would, in the event of hitting them, cause painful results, the two Scouts came to the closed companion hatch communicating to the main cabin.
Through a chink in the teak door, Atherton saw that a light was burning. The scuttles had been covered with a thick material in order to screen the light within.
It was a remarkable sight that met the Scout's gaze. On the swinging table was a quantity of silver plate. Sitting on one bunk was one of the crew, who was apprehensively regarding his companion. Of the latter Atherton now had no doubts. He was the same red-necked fellow who had been one of the assailants of Sir Silas Gwinnear. There was no mistaking the closely cropped iron-grey hair, the rounded though massive shoulders and back, the long legs and all the other characteristics the Scout had so carefully noticed. In his hands he held a sporting rifle, which was pointed in the direction of his companion.
"Ere, chuck it, Bill. Turn that blessed thing away," remonstrated the seated man.
"'Tain't loaded, yer blinkin' juggins."