"I hope to goodness we get a fair breeze before that, or my leave will be up. But let's to work! We'll examine everything carefully and make an inventory of all that belongs to the late charterers. We'll turn out the contents of that rack first."
"Hold on; here's the logbook," exclaimed Smith. "I wonder if Hamerton—poor chap—entered anything in it. By George, he has!"
The entries extended up to 1 a.m. on the fateful Tuesday morning. The sighting of the Norderney light, the error in the compass course, and the fact that the yacht had been steered in a north-westerly direction to claw off the sandbanks and the mouth of the Elbe were set down in the Sub's handwriting.
"Five fathoms. Something wrong. Still heavy rain," read the last entry.
"Seems funny," remarked Stirling thoughtfully. "They speak of a strong breeze, and sailing under reefed mainsail, close-reefed mizen, and storm jib. That is early on Tuesday morning. That same evening the yacht is picked up forty miles in almost the opposite direction to the course shown in the log. Her reefs were all shaken out, and she had her large jib."
"Perhaps the wind dropped during the day."
"Then why wasn't that part recorded in the log? Hamerton seems to have been most conscientious in writing it up. Every hour there is a fresh entry, yet at 1 a.m., when it is blowing hard, there is a sudden break."
"H'm! I don't know. There's your chance to use your gift of conjecture."
The work of clearing the rack on the port side of the cabin proceeded apace. It was not a congenial task separating the effects of the two missing men from such articles as belonged to the owner.
Suddenly Stirling gave a low whistle.