The situation was indeed serious. The Scouts had bitten off more than they could chew, yet not one of them raised a shout for help.
For the third time the Leader of the "Wolves" tackled the madman, but ere he could obtain a hold his feet slipped on the smooth rock. Tassh's fingers closed on Simpson's throat with a force that threatened to choke the Scout into insensibility. Simultaneously, by a back kick, the maniac sent Neale staggering, and well-nigh breathless, upon the prostrate Fraser. A multitude of lights flashed before Simpson's eyes . . . then his opponent's grip suddenly relaxed, and Atherton's voice was heard exclaiming:
"It's all right, Simpson. Pull yourself together, man. I hope I haven't killed the fellow."
Atherton had arrived in the nick of time. Something had prompted him to follow Simpson's scanty patrol; he knew by the sounds from the rogue's lair that a desperate struggle was taking place. He leapt into the little cave and with his staff struck the violent madman a stunning blow, causing Tassh to sink inertly to the ground.
As soon as Simpson and Fraser had sufficiently recovered, steps were taken to get the insensible thief from his den. With a bowline round his waist, Tassh was hauled out of the hole, carried across the inner cave and out into the open air.
"We've found the rest of the silver, sir," announced Simpson.
"That's good business," replied Mr Buckley. "It's time we had a rest. Put those lights out, Green, it must be close on dawn. Why, where is the yacht?"
In the pale grey light, the sea showed an unbroken expanse of rippling water. The yacht with Phillips and Mayne had vanished.
* * * *
"I trust that rascal on board hasn't got the better of Phillips and Mayne," said Mr Buckley.