"Tide time to-morrow night," was the reply. "Say about six o'clock."
Peter's peregrinations that day were by no means finished. After being held up and interviewed by the local representative of the Kilba Protectorate Gazette, who was also a correspondent to one of the principal London dailies, he found out Olive and told her of his latest plans.
"It won't take much more than a week—perhaps less," he explained. "I don't think that in any case you will be able to find a homeward-bound vessel by that time."
"I won't trouble to do so," declared the girl. "Mr. Davis and his wife are no end of good sorts."
Preston received the news of Peter's venture with considerable envy.
"Wish I were fit enough," he remarked; "I'd come along and help you through with it. Keep your eyes open, old man, and see if you can find out anything about the West Barbican. It seems to me that somebody in Bulonga might be able to throw out a good hint as to the cause of the explosion. I may be wrong, but those are my sentiments. When do you sail?"
Peter told him.
"That's unfortunate, my lad," rejoined the Acting Chief. "These people here are giving us a lush-up to-morrow evening. Couldn't wait, I suppose?"
Mostyn shook his head.
"Tide time," he replied briefly.