"If there's anyone here, Wigan, we're two landlubbers who've got benighted and have a bad attack of nerves," whispered Quarles. "Hitch one end of that coil of rope to the painter, so that when we fasten our boat to the stays on the other side of the yacht she'll float far astern. When they return they are almost certain to come up on this side to the steps, so will not be likely either to see the rope or our boat in the dark."
I fastened the rope to the painter as Quarles suggested, and climbed on to the yacht after him. Then I let the tide carry our boat astern, and, crossing the deck, tied the other end of the rope securely to the stays on the other side.
The sky seemed to have become heavier and more leaden; it was too dark to see anything clearly. There was little wind, yet a subdued and ghostly note sounded in the yacht's rigging, and the water swirling at her bows seemed to emphasize her loneliness. So far as I could see, she was in exactly the same condition as when I had seen her from the golf course. No one was on deck, and no sound came from below.
"Queer feeling about her, don't you think?" said Quarles. "We're just deadly afraid of the night and spooks, that's what we are if there is anyone to question us."
I followed him down into the cabin. At the foot of the companion Quarles flashed a pocket electric torch. It was only a momentary flash, then darkness again as he gave a warning little hiss.
Three glasses on the table was all I had seen. I supposed the professor had seen something more, but I was wrong.
After standing perfectly motionless for a minute or so, he flashed the light again, and sent the ray round the cabin. The appointments were faded, the covering of the long, fixed seats on either side of the table was torn in places. One of these seats had evidently served as a bunk, for a pillow and folded blanket were lying upon it. All the paint work was dirty and scratched. Forward, there was a door into the galley; aft, another door to another cabin.
"A crew of three," said Quarles. "Three glasses, plenty of liquor left in the bottle in the rack yonder, a pipe and a pouch, and a conundrum."
He let the light rest on a sheet of paper lying beside the glasses. On it was written: "S. B. Piles—one with chain—9th link. N. B. Direct. Mud—high water—90 and 4 feet."
"A conundrum, Wigan. What do you make of it?"