[Illustration: cover art]

THE SALVING OF
THE "FUSI YAMA"

[Illustration: A SUBMARINE DUEL Frontispiece
(missing from book)]

THE SALVING OF
THE "FUSI YAMA"

A Post-War Story of the Sea

BY

PERCY F. WESTERMAN

Illustrated by E. S. Hodgson

BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY

Contents

THE SALVING OF THE
"FUSI YAMA"

CHAPTER I

Rocks Ahead

"And how do you like being out of harness, old top?" inquired Jack Villiers.

The "old top", otherwise Bobby Beverley, late Sub-Lieutenant of the Motor Boat Reserve, squared his shoulders and thrust his hands deeply into the pockets of a well-worn salt-stained monkey-jacket.

"Candidly, dear old thing, I don't like it one little bit," he replied. "A fish out of water isn't in it."

"I believe that's an undisputed fact," interrupted the other.

"And I jolly well begin to realize it," continued Beverley with conviction. "There are thousands in the same boat, but that doesn't alter my position. Fact remains, I see rocks ahead."

"Is that so?" inquired Villiers seriously. "What is it? Short of the ready?"

Beverley shook his head.

"Not that," he replied, with the confidence that a Service man will display when discussing financial matters with a brother-officer. "I've been careful, after a fashion, and there's my gratuity, and a bit of prize-money when that comes along. Enough to carry on with for a bit; but, hang it all, what's a fellow to do? I don't like the idea of taking on a job in an office. When you've been in charge of a crew for the last three years, you don't like knuckling under and being bossed; you know what I mean."

"Precisely, old bird," agreed Villiers. "Same here. I'd go off to Rhodesia like a shot, only I don't know a blessed thing about farming. I'd go to sea again, but the Mercantile Marine is chock-a-block with demobbed Royal Naval Reserve men with Board of Trade certificates and deep-sea experience. That's where we're bunkered, old boy. But never mind. Something'll turn up. It's a case of grasping Dame Fortune by the forelock, whatever that is. 'Fraid the only forelock I'm acquainted with is the forelock of an anchor, and that's apt to let you down badly if you don't watch it."

The two chums had encountered each other just outside the docks at Southampton. Both had recently been demobilized from the parent ship Hermione, Villiers' "M.L." having been paid off a fortnight before Beverley's craft had gone to lay up indefinitely in the Hamble River.

Jack Villiers was a tall, sparely-built fellow, bronzed, athletic, and moving with a typically nautical roll that one is bound to acquire by three years' acquaintance with the open sea. The only son of a formerly well-to-do Devonshire man, Jack found himself "out of a berth" with precious few prospects of obtaining employment of anything approaching a congenial nature. He had gone straight from a public school into the R.N.V.R and for three years he had risked his life for his country and had had enough experiences of warfare afloat to last a lifetime. He knew how to handle men, to take over responsibility in a tight corner, and generally to steel his nerves and act promptly in emergencies. He had a roof over his head, albeit the enamelled roof of the M.L.'s ward-room; good and ample food, a genial superior officer, and a crew with whom he was undoubtedly popular. His salary was sufficient for his needs, although it compared unfavourably with the wages of the average munition-worker ashore, and generally speaking he had, to quote his own words, "a top-hole time".

But at the end of the three years it was quite another story. The prospect of completing his education at a university had vanished. His second string—a course at an Engineering Training College—had snapped, His father, hard hit by the war, was no longer in a position to render financial aid, and it became apparent that Jack Villiers would have to cut out a line for himself.

The burning question was how? The prospect of a commercial life appalled him. His utter inexperience of the world was against him, and it was doubtful whether, during that period of unrest that almost invariably besets the demobilized man, he could settle to sedentary work. The call of the sea, the craving for spirited and healthy adventure, militated against the prospect of a hum-drum life.

Bobby Beverley was in much the same state—possibly worse. He was additionally hampered by having to provide for his fifteen-year-old brother Dick, who was at present a boarder in a well-known school near Salisbury. Bobby's parents were both dead. Mr. Beverley, taking up a commission in the Army Service Corps, at the age of forty, had been killed in action somewhere in France. His widow survived him by but a few months, while Dick had to be maintained out of a scanty "compassionate allowance ", largely augmented by a considerable portion of his elder brother's Sub-Lieutenant's pay. And now Bobby Beverley was faced with two problems: his own future and that of Dick when the latter left school, which would be at no distant date.

"Let's trot along and have lunch," suggested Villiers. "I know of a decent little show in the High Street. Dash it all! I remembered in time," he added, as he replaced his cap after saluting a lady. "Only just beginning to remember I'm in mufti. Passed Barry's missus this morning, and, by Jove! I was going to salute Navy fashion when I recollected I was out of it. Good old times those, George."

"They were," admitted "George" fervently, accepting without demur the name that for some unaccountable reason is indiscriminately bestowed upon members of the Senior Service. "We had our sticky times, of course. Then we groused like the rest of 'em. But that's a back number. Looking at it retrospectively, it wasn't a bad sort of stunt. And now there's the future."

"There won't be one for you on this old planet if you aren't more careful," interrupted Villiers, as he gripped his chum by the arm and hiked him on to the pavement just in time to escape being run down by a motor-cyclist. "Bless my soul! It's Alec Claverhouse; and on a brand-new 1919 jigger, too."

The recognition was mutual, for the motor-cyclist slowed down and came to a standstill with one foot on the kerb within twenty yards of the spot where he had all but collided with Bobby Beverley.

From what could be seen of him Alec Claverhouse appeared to be a tall, burly fellow. Tall he certainly was, but the burliness was largely deceptive, since he was wearing thick clothing and heavy motor mackintosh overalls. His forehead was concealed by a golf-cap pulled well down, while resting upon the peak were a pair of goggles that were evidently considered by their owner to be necessary adjuncts to the "doggy" appearance of a "speed merchant".

Claverhouse was an ex-lieutenant of the Royal Air Force—or Flying-Officer according to the revised and much criticized style of rank. He had been demobilized for more than five months, and after a long and wearisome search for a job had taken up a not too lucrative post at a motor-engineering works, part of his duty being to risk his neck and those of others of His Majesty's lieges by testing cars and motor-cycles on the King's highway. Up to the present he had been fairly fortunate in having his licence endorsed but twice, although it was a wonder that the fatal third endorsement had not been recorded. Like a good many other air-pilots Claverhouse, used to travelling at 120 miles an hour, found that a paltry twenty over the ground was a mere crawl.

"Cheerio, Beverley, old bird!" he exclaimed boisterously. "Hardly expected to run up against you. Still in it, I see. And, Villiers, you dear old thing! so they've chucked you out."

"Both of us," corrected Beverley. "We were discussing the prospects of hacking our way to fame and prosperity when you nearly settled the problem for us."

"Always ready to be of assistance," rejoined Claverhouse. "By the by, seen any of the old Abermurchan crowd lately?"

"Not since last July," replied Beverley. "Villiers and I came south together when the M.L. base packed up. The Air Station was due to close down almost immediately, I remember. What are you doing here?"

"Trying to find my feet," was the reply. "In other words, pottering about in a glorified garage waiting for a snip. I'm thinking of going abroad."

"That's about as far as we've got," said Villiers.

"But at present we're thinking of having lunch. Come along with us."

"My 'bus," protested Alec.

"Shove it round the back of the show," suggested Villiers. "Get on with it and then you can reserve a table. We'll be there in less than five minutes."

Claverhouse fell in with the suggestion and rode off. Arriving at the restaurant he was fortunate in securing a corner table. Five minutes passed, but there were no signs of Villiers and Beverley. Ten minutes passed.

"Wonder if they're acting the giddy goat with me?" he soliloquized as he carelessly picked up a copy of The Times and began to scan the Personal Column.

Why he did so he hardly knew. There was little of interest to him in the long list of appeals for work by demobilized men, though it roused his sympathy. Somehow it didn't seem right that fellows who had fought for the country should have to eat out of the hands of the stay-at-homes who for a dead certainty would have had no home had the Hun been top-dog.

Half-way down the column he came across an advertisement of a length and novelty unusual even to the unique Agony Column of The Times. Its audacity held him until he became aware of the arrival of Villiers and Beverley by receiving a vigorous thump on his shoulder.

"Sorry we're late, old son," exclaimed the former apologetically. "Ran across old Hammersley just under the Bargate. You remember him?"

Claverhouse nodded, then put the paper on the table.

"Cast your eye on this, old thing," he said. "A bit tall, eh, what?"

"What, Rio del Oro shares? Thanks, I'm not having any," said Villiers decidedly.

"No, next column," explained Claverhouse. "There, where my thumb is."

"What's the wheeze?" inquired Beverley, craning his neck and looking over Villier's shoulder.

"That's what I want to know," replied Alec. "If there's anything in it, I'm on."

The announcement was as follows:—

"To Demobilized Officers. Those wishing for further excitement and adventure overseas and who are physically and mentally capable of taking care of themselves are invited to communicate with the under-signed. An enterprise involving the risking of two hundred and fifty pounds per head is in contemplation. The capital may be lost; on the other hand, there is a possibility of a gain of one thousand per cent upwards. Applications are especially invited from ex-members of the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve, and Royal Air Force, but those persons formerly serving in other branches of H.M. Services will be given consideration. Full particulars of the scheme, which will require twelve months' personal service, will be supplied to bona fide applicants.—Address, 'Joystick', c/o Messrs. Steady and Strong, Richborough Chambers, Southampton."

"Claptrap!" declared Villiers, taking up the menu-card, which represented something rather more concrete, and consequently rather more digestible, than the newspaper announcement.

"P'raps," admitted Claverhouse, with his characteristic drawl. "'Tany rate the bloke's straightforward enough to tell you that you might be chucking your money away."

"That's so," agreed Beverley. "We can investigate. I suppose there's no obligation to carry on if the thing looks fishy."

"I don't mind going that far," said Villiers. "And if it looks a sound scheme I'll plank down three hundred. After all three hundred is only worth about a hundred and eighty pounds, and if we are kept employed for a twelvemonth and get a bit of excitement chucked in, well—we might just as soon spend our gratuities that way as being rooked and rushed at home."

Beverley made no audible comment. He was of a cautious nature, and his cautiousness was heightened by the fact that he was responsible for the maintenance of a young brother for at least a couple of years.

While the waiter was taking orders the subject was dropped, but as soon as the man had departed Claverhouse returned to the matter.

"Wonder if it's a filibustering stunt?" he hazarded.

"Or piracy," added Villiers. "I heard a yarn floating around only yesterday about a merchant skipper whose crew were killed in cold blood by a U-boat. The old man was taken prisoner, but managed to escape, and now he's vowed to get his own back. How I don't know, unless he turns pirate and goes for every Fritz he falls in with on the high seas."

"Thanks, I'm not having any there," declared Beverley. "I don't want to find myself hanging in the modern equivalent to Execution Dock."

"Nor I," added Villiers. "Apparently this stunt has something to do with the sea, since it's R.N.V.R. fellows who are wanted."

"And Air Force blokes," said Claverhouse gently.

"Nothing like sticking up for your own crush, old bird," remarked Villiers. "Yes, that part puzzles me a bit. Look here, let's take Beverley's advice and make inquiries. If it isn't all jonnick we can pipe down."

"When?" asked Claverhouse. "Now? At once?"

Villiers laughed.

"Hardly," he replied. "Pretty guys we'd look trotting round to Richborough Chambers and asking for 'Joystick'. It's too much like asking for trouble to my mind. No, the best thing we can do without compromising ourselves is to write and ask for an interview. Then we can resolve ourselves into a Committee of Ways and Means."

"Joint letter?" asked Beverley.

"No, individual, briefly stating our qualifications," replied Villiers.

"But, in that case, you or I might be sent for and the others ignored," objected Claverhouse. "I vote we stick together—united we stand sort of touch."

"That's the stuff to give 'em," was Villiers' rejoinder.

CHAPTER II

To the Rescue

It was not until the following Thursday afternoon that Villiers, as head of the informal Mutual Advancement Syndicate, received a reply to the joint letter to "Joystick".

As Villiers had expected, the letter gave no clue to the nature of the proposed undertaking, but consisted of a brief intimation that the advertiser would be pleased to interview Messrs. Villiers, Beverley, and Claverhouse at Richborough Chambers at 3 p.m. that day.

"We're progressing," he observed, as he handed the letter to Bobby. "Now comes the fun. Will 'Joystick' take a rise out of us, or shall we pull his leg? Let's go round and rout out Claverhouse."

"He'll be at his one-horse show garage," said Beverley. "Better look him up at lunch-time."

"Won't give him enough warning," objected Villiers. "We'll tackle him at once and let him know how things stand. 'Raise steam and prepare for immediate action', eh, what?"

They happened across Alec Claverhouse just outside the motor-works. He was about to take a 60-h.p. "Odouresque" out for a test run.

"Cheerio!" he exclaimed. "Any luck?"

"Read this," replied Villiers. "My festive friend, you'll have to pipe down this afternoon. Thursday's 'Make and mend', you know."

"Not in this rotten show," said Claverhouse. "The civilian equivalent to the Adjutant bird in these works is a regular Cossack for granting time off. I haven't a great grandmother to bury, nor is there a football match on this afternoon, so honours are even on that score. What do you think of this little lad? Guess I'll knock sixty out of her on the road."

"In that case," remarked Beverley, "you'll get run in by the police and sacked by the firm, so before you do find yourself in the cart why don't you apply for leave?"

"I will, sure," replied Claverhouse, throwing off his leather-lined coat and tossing it into the coupé. "Hang on half a tick, and I'll tell you the result of the poll."

He disappeared from view, leaving Jack and Bobby to admire the workmanship and general "get up" of the powerful "Odouresque".

In less than five minutes he reappeared, beaming and smiling.

"It's all O.K.," he announced. "I cut the rotten red tape and saw the manager. While I was about it—'in for a penny, in for a pound' stunt you know—I asked if he had any objection to you fellows coming with me. Said he hadn't, as long as the firm hadn't to pay your funeral exes; so hop in and let's get a move on."

Nothing loth the two chums boarded the car, Villiers sitting by Claverhouse while Beverley reclined in lordly fashion on the back seat. Almost imperceptibly, in response to a touch of the electric starter, the powerful car glided away.

There was no doubt about it. Claverhouse knew how to handle a high-horse-powered engine, and before the car had traversed the length of the crowded High Street, and had adroitly negotiated the narrow Bargate, both Villiers and Beverley had abandoned the mental visions of finding themselves either in a mortuary or in an infirmary.

Alec kept the car well retarded until he reached the outskirts of Southampton, then opening out slightly he soon covered the somewhat hilly road between the seaport and the cathedral city of Winchester, but never once did the needle of the speedometer point above twenty-five.

"Don't think I was boasting about the sixty," remarked Claverhouse. "There's a fine stretch of open road ahead. Then you watch her rip. Keep your eye on the speedometer. It's the only indication of the rate we're doing."

Presently the chalky highway ascended a long hill that forms part of the North Downs. Ahead as far as the eye could reach was a desolate stretch of unfenced road with a wide expanse of undulating grass-land on either side—straight as a die in the direction but interrupted by a number of gentle gradients.

"Worthy Down," announced Alec. "Four hundred feet up. Now she'll rip."

Rip she did. Swiftly the needle rose from thirty to forty-five.

"All serene?" asked Claverhouse, only this time he did not turn his head. His whole attention was centred upon the road, yet so silent and well protected was the car that he could speak in an ordinary tone and be heard distinctly.

"Quite," replied Villiers.

Fifty, fifty-five, sixty, sixty-five, seventy.

The "Odouresque" was travelling. The wind whistled past the screens, the chalk road blended into a vague, swiftly-rushing riband of white. Everything within fifty yards was indistinct, like a badly-focused photograph, while for a mile behind the car a dense cloud of dust eddied in the back-draught of the swiftly-moving vehicle.

"Look out, old man," cautioned Villiers. "There's a cyclist ahead."

"Yes, I see him," replied Alec, gently retarding the terrific momentum. "'Fraid he's spoiled my record."

"Motor-cyclist," corrected Jack, as the approaching machine breasted one of the intervening ridges and disappeared in a dip of the road. "Wonder if anything would happen if a bike going at, say, forty, passed a big car doing seventy? If——"

He broke off. Simultaneously Claverhouse throttled down and applied the side-brakes.

Before the car could be brought to a standstill it had surmounted a slight rise and was on the down grade leading to another ascent half a mile or more away. Right in the hollow was a confused group of figures which resolved itself into a motor-cyclist bravely defending himself against four rough-looking men. The cycle lay on the grass a good ten yards from the road and a fifth ruffian was already beginning to ransack the contents of a case strapped to the carrier.

At first sight Villiers thought that there had been an accident, and that the motor-cyclist had collided with a group of pedestrians, but he was speedily undeceived. It was a case of highway robbery.

Unfortunately, from the footpads' point of view, the rascals had not bargained for the approach of a car at seventy miles an hour. Lying in wait for the solitary traveller, they had taken the precaution to see that the straight road was otherwise deserted when the object of their attention approached. Nor were they aware of the presence of the swift, silent car until it appeared to leap from the ground within a hundred yards of them.

"Look out, chums!" shouted the fellow standing over the fallen motor-cycle, and acting upon his own warning he promptly took to his heels.

The others also fled, but not before one of them was held by the attacked motor-cyclist. It looked as if the fellow would be made a prisoner, for the other held on like a leech, until the ruffian drew a knife and struck.

"After them!" yelled Beverley, taking a flying leap from the car. Villiers was a close second, ignoring Claverhouse's suggestion to take the car in pursuit.

As it was the chase was futile. The assailants, young, agile, and strong in wind, scattered in different directions, steadily outdistancing the three new arrivals, hampered as they were with heavy coats.

"Pity we didn't stick to the car," remarked Alec regretfully, as puffed and pouring with perspiration they made their way back to the victim of the attack. "I bet we would have run at least two of them to earth. Fine sport it would have been, and the grass makes good going. Hallo! He's up again."

Claverhouse indicated the unfortunate motor-cyclist, who, holding one arm below the elbow, was ruefully contemplating his steed.

"Hurt, sir?" inquired Villiers.

"Scratch," replied the other with equal laconism.

Then, as if the presence of his rescuers was unnoticed, he fumbled with the fingers of his uninjured arm until he succeeded in opening the leather case on the carrier.

Apparently his investigations were satisfactory, for, closing the lid, he turned towards the three chums.

"Thanks, awfully, for your timely assistance," he exclaimed. "It was very remiss of me not to say so before, but my head feels a trifle dizzy. I'm afraid I haven't quite got the hang of things yet."

"Let me bind your arm," suggested Beverley. "It is bleeding rather badly."

"So it is," admitted the stranger. "I hardly noticed it, but it's tingling a bit now."

Villiers helped him off with his motor-cycling coat and jacket and rolled up his sleeve.

"Clean cut," announced Beverley. "Any first-aid gadgets in the car, Alec?"

"Trust me for that," replied Claverhouse. "I'll fetch the wallet."

"Any suggestion as to the cause of that attack?" asked Villiers.

"Can't say," was the non-committal reply. "I'm sorry they got away—very."

"So am I," agreed Villiers sincerely. "According to the papers, robbery with violence is on the increase. One of the after-results of the war, I suppose. Going far?"

"Southampton," replied the stranger. "I have an engagement at three."

"So have we," added Beverley. "Is your bike all right?"

Examination proved that it was rideable, although the front wheel was slightly buckled and the exhaust-lever cable had snapped.

"You'd better come in the car," suggested Claverhouse, when the bandaging operation was completed. "One of my friends can ride your bike."

"I'd be eternally grateful," replied the motor-cyclist. "I'm not much of a hand at this sort of game, but with this wretched railway strike on, what is a fellow to do?"

"It's no use hanging on to the slack," observed Claverhouse, moving in the direction of the car. "Jump in and let's get along. First stop Winchester, I presume?"

"What for?" asked the stranger. "Not on my account?"

"But surely," said Claverhouse, in astonishment, "you are going to inform the police?"

"A waste of valuable time," objected the other. "No, if you don't mind dropping me in Southampton I'll be doubly obliged. I'll take that attaché case with me, if you please."

"Good enough," agreed Claverhouse. "Beverley, dear old soul, you're riding the bike, I believe?"

"That is so," admitted Bobby.

"And," continued Alec, with a grin, "you think you'll hang on to us? You'll be dropped, old son, for a dead cert. So don't you think it would be just as well to ask this gentleman's address? Where shall we put you down, sir?" he asked, turning to the stranger.

"Richborough Chambers," was the unexpected reply.

"Well, I'm hanged!" exclaimed Villiers. "That's rummy—very. Do you happen to know of a fellow who, for certain reasons, calls himself 'Joystick'?"

A faint smile overspread the man's bull-dog features.

"I am 'Joystick'," he replied.

CHAPTER III

Signing On

For some minutes "Joystick" remained silent, enjoying the obvious astonishment of the trio.

"You need not introduce yourselves," he continued. "You are Robert Beverley; you are Jack Villiers, and you are Alec Claverhouse—I presume you pronounce your name in Scots' fashion."

"You are a veritable Sherlock Holmes," declared Villiers.

The other raised a hand deprecatingly.

"I cannot aspire to that degree of intelligence," he remarked. "So, to remove misunderstandings, I will explain. You said you had an appointment at Southampton at three. I mentioned Richborough Chambers, and then you asked if I knew 'Joystick'. Amongst many applications for an interview I had a joint letter signed by you three fellows. I heard Beverley called by name. That accounted for one of you, and left two—Villiers and Claverhouse. One looked like a naval man, the other did not, but he had an accent that hails from north of the Tweed. Simple, eh? and, by the by, since I know your names, there is no reason why I should screen myself under a nom-de-plume or nom-de-guerre, or whatever you like to call it. I'm called Harborough—Hugh Harborough."

"Late Lieutenant-Commander, R.N.V.R.?" asked Villiers.

"Correct," was the reply.

"And Sir Hugh Harborough," continued Jack.

"I believe I have a handle to my name," replied the baronet, smiling. "However, that's a detail. I didn't ask for it. A fellow cannot be responsible for the deeds: or misdeeds of his great-great-grandfather."

"That excuse cannot apply to your D.S.O.," urged Villiers, following up his attack.

It was Sir Hugh's turn to look astonished.

"How do you know that?" he asked.

"Merely because I happened to know a fellow in the Inchlellan Patrol who had been transferred from Poldene. He knew you. Carruthers is his name."

"Good man, Carruthers," exclaimed Sir Hugh. "I'd like to meet him again. But this isn't Southampton. What do you say to an alteration of plan? Come back to 'Thalassa Towers' and have lunch with me. Then, if you don't mind running me into Southampton, I can interview some more fellows at 3.30. It's only a matter of eight and a half miles to my place."

It was Alec Claverhouse who was the first to agree to the revised programme, and since he was in charge of the "Odouresque" Company's car it was only right that he should take the responsibility of delaying its return. Provided the car was returned to the works and reported "passed for road work" by three o'clock there would be no cause for anxiety on the part of the officials of the company.

"Any objection to a speed burst, Sir Hugh?" he asked.

"None whatever," was the reply. "What'll she do?"

For answer Alec let the car all out. She was soon doing seventy-five, while Beverley, on the twin "Mephisto" was almost out of sight far astern. But Beverley was cautious in most things, and on a strange mount he did not feel inclined to give the engine full throttle.

"To the left at the fork roads," cautioned the baronet. "Hadn't you better let Beverley reduce station a bit? No, I don't think the footpads will molest him. It was this they were after, I fancy."

And he tapped the attaché-case at his side.

A quarter of an hour later the "Odouresque" was sweeping along the extensive drive leading to Thalassa Towers, with the "Mephisto" fifty yards behind.

"Make yourselves at home, and please drop all formality," said the baronet. "This isn't a Service stunt, and personally I'm dead set on red tape. Had quite enough of that the last four years. 'Fraid the place is rather in a muddle. You see, I only succeeded to the title in '15, when my elder brother went under at Ypres, and I haven't spent much time at the old show since."

"I like his idea of a muddle," thought Beverley, as a well-served lunch was being quickly provided, although at short notice. There seemed an abundance of servants, and, what was somewhat remarkable, there was a large touring-car and a light run-about in the garage. Why then did Sir Hugh risk his neck on a motor-cycle?

Harborough personally led the way to a bath-room, and then, excusing himself, disappeared for a few minutes to return divested of his mackintosh overalls.

He was of average build, bronzed complexion, with heavy jaw and cheek bones. His eyebrows were thick and bushy, extending in an almost continuous straight line below a forehead of medium height. His iron-grey hair was close-cropped and grew low on his temples. When he smiled, which was rarely, a double row of even white teeth rather toned down an otherwise blunt, determined, and somewhat reckless-looking face.

Instinctively the three chums felt that Sir Hugh was "sizing them up" before broaching the important subject. He put them entirely at their ease, chatting casually on common-place subjects during lunch, but the while there was the feeling that every question he asked, however simple, was with the object of plumbing the minds of his guests.

Villiers tried to "draw him" on the matter of the idle motor-cars, but the baronet avoided the subject adroitly yet without any suspicion of awkwardness, and the conversation drifted through the merits of No. 6 shot for rabbit-shooting and the prospects of next year's yachting to a discussion on heavier versus lighter-than-air machines.

"Suppose we make tracks for the smoking-room?" suggested Sir Hugh, when lunch was finished.

The smoking-room was cosily furnished in old oak, and like the rest of the rooms on the ground floor the windows were heavily barred. There were also steel shutters, opening and folding inwards against the sides of the deep window-recesses. Both bars and shutters were unmistakably recent additions.

The baronet motioned to his guests to seat themselves, and handed cigarettes. Then placing the attaché-case on the table he took up his position on the hearthrug, leaning against the carved mantelpiece.

"Now to business," he began abruptly. "I'm not asking for recruits for a filibustering expedition, piracy, or any of that sort of work. I'm taking on a speculative but above-board deal, which will involve hard work, peril, and perhaps losing the number of your mess. I believe you, Claverhouse, would term the latter contingency 'Going West', but you know what I mean. Briefly, I hope to fish up a million and a half in bullion and specie, the principal part of the cargo of a ship sunk by von Spee's squadron somewhere in the Pacific. I know where that somewhere is; the exact position is recorded in a document lying in that attaché-case. Incidentally, I have good reason to believe that this morning's little affair was promoted by a clever scoundrel who is particularly anxious to obtain the secret and to see me safely out of the way. Those bars and shutters, which I noticed that you were admiring just now, are part of the defensive scheme; so you see, apart from the mere excitement of treasure-hunting, there is a subsidiary stratum of danger to add to the zest of the prospectors."

"That sounds promising, Sir Hugh," observed Villiers.

"And as to terms," continued the baronet. "Each member of the expedition—I propose to bring up the number to fifteen or eighteen—will be required to contribute two hundred and fifty pounds towards the cost. I will find the balance. Meals and quarters will be provided free, but there will be no guarantee that each member's capital will be returned. It won't even be secured. If, as I expect, the venture is a success, half the profit will be divided between my assistants plus their two hundred and fifty pounds, while I have the rest of the proceeds. Now, have you any remarks?"

"Seems quite O.K.," replied Claverhouse. "After all's said, two hundred and fifty pounds isn't much for a twelvemonth's travel with board and lodging thrown in, as we remarked when we saw your advertisement."

"There's more than that," said Sir Hugh. "The stake makes every man take the keenest interest in the work. He realizes that it's up to him to do his level best for his comrades and himself. I could, of course, engage a professional crew, but nowadays one can't depend upon paid labour whether ashore or afloat. This railway strike, for example, although the way the Government's tackling it was a complete surprise."

"We volunteered," remarked Villiers, "either for road or marine transport, but we were three amongst thousands and didn't have a sniff in. Motor jobs all snapped up and only a few fellows required for marine work."

"That's satisfactory from one point," said Harborough. "It shows that a considerable section of the community supposed to be relatively helpless can get a move on. The war has brought them out, as it were; helped them to find their feet. But that's where I was let down when my chauffeur struck suddenly. Driving a car isn't one of my accomplishments."

"We noticed you had a couple of cars," observed Beverley.

"And wondered accordingly, I presume," added Sir Hugh drily. "Let me explain. My chauffeur fellow wanted more pay, although I had raised his wages recently. Thought he had me under his thumb, so to speak, when the railway strike came, but I wasn't going to be bluffed. So he went off at once, presumably to join the taxi-driver crush in town. He'd make a fine brigand. I can drive a four-in-hand with credit. Took on the job of driving a stage-coach in Winnipeg fifteen years ago, and was glad to get four dollars a day for doing it. So you see, I've had my ups and downs in life, and I'm not sorry. Since I couldn't drive the car and there was no one on the spot to drive for me, I sent my gardener boy into Farnham to bring back a motor-bike. The 'Mephisto' was the only one he could get, and a hundred guineas at that, but you see, I'm always particular to keep my appointments. I mustn't forget the one at Southampton at three-thirty," he added, glancing at his watch. "Now, have I made myself sufficiently clear for the present? If you require time to think the proposition over, there is no immediate hurry for a day or so—say Monday morning."

"I'm on it," declared the impulsive Villiers.

"And I," added the hitherto deliberate Claverhouse.

Bobby Beverley hesitated.

"Out with it, man," exclaimed Harborough encouragingly. "Nothing like speaking your mind. What's the difficulty? Anything of a private nature?"

"Not at all, Sir Hugh," replied Beverley, flushing slightly under his tan. "I'd like to come, only——"

The baronet guessed the nature of the impediment. He was right, but he was too keen a judge of human nature to prompt the still hesitating youth.

"It's like this," resumed Bobby, plunging into details. "I can't very well raise that two hundred and fifty pounds without getting credit. I've a young brother to look after."

"How old?" inquired Harborough.

"Fifteen this month."

"H'm, beginning to think what he wants to be," commented the baronet. "What are you doing with him?"

"He's at boarding-school," answered Bobby. "I think he'll go in for motor-engineering. He wanted to have a shot for Sandhurst, but, unless something turns up, I can't run to it."

"Nothing like the Service for a healthy youngster, provided he's keen," commented Sir Hugh. "Wish I'd gone in for Osborne when I was a lad. Instead of that I got out of hand, and my governor packed me off to Canada to find my feet. I did," he added grimly.

The baronet glanced at his watch again, and then addressed Villiers.

"Can you drive a car?" he asked. "You can—good. Will you mind driving me in? Claverhouse can take his, and then I'll have something to get home in. Excuse me a moment while I get my gear."

He went out, taking the attaché-case with him. Villiers turned to his companions.

"Wonder if he's fixed up for the return journey?" he remarked. "Bobby, you thundering old ox, why the blazing Harry did you hedge? I'd have advanced you the ready like a shot."

"I know, old man," replied Beverley. "I'd jump at it, but there's Dick. I'm a non-starter."

"Tell you what——" began Villiers.

He got no further, for at that instant the door opened and Harborough appeared.

"Can you spare me a minute, Beverley?" he asked.

Beverley went out. His chums exchanged glances.

"It's a deal after all, old bean," remarked Claverhouse.

Bobby was absent not one but a good ten minutes. He returned with a radiant face, following the self-possessed Sir Hugh.

"Beverley has signed on," announced the baronet briefly.

CHAPTER IV

Comrades All

"When do we take over, sir?" inquired Villiers.

The reply came sharp and to the point.

"From now," replied Sir Hugh. "In Claverhouse's case, I understand, he will have to give in his resignation. There's one more point. In addition to board and quarters—you'll be regarded as members of the establishment—there will be an amount of two guineas a week to each of the syndicate until we leave England. That will be as soon as possible, but it would hardly be fair to expect you to hang on here without some slight remuneration. Now let's be going."

The four men made their way to the garage, where Claverhouse showed Villiers how to manage the baronet's car, which was of a type that the R.N.V.R. man knew intimately. Then, having "started up", Claverhouse boarded the "Odouresque" with Beverley as his companion, while Sir Hugh and Villiers seated themselves in the other.

The journey to Southampton was performed at strictly moderate speed, and nothing unusual occurred. Villiers led the way, the powerful "Odouresque" following a hundred yards behind at a pace that seemed a painful crawl to the road-hogging Alec.

Just before the Bargate, Claverhouse took a side-road in order to return the car to the Odouresque Co., Ltd., leaving Villiers to take the head of the syndicate to Richborough Chambers.

It was an intricate piece of work to negotiate the ancient and narrow gateway that spans Southampton's principal street. The road was not only greasy, and had tram lines on it, but there was a slight descent to the Bargate itself. Here stood a policeman regulating the traffic, since it was possible for vehicles to pass only in one direction at a time.

The traffic was passing in the right direction as Villiers approached. Just ahead was a tramcar, while following the motor—he could see that by means of the reflector—was a petrol-driven dray with three or four men sitting on the otherwise empty body.

The tramcar emerged from under the arch, but just as Villiers was immediately under the gate a cyclist, disregarding the policeman's upraised arm, dashed headlong towards the front of Villiers' car.

Not for one moment did the ex-officer lose his nerve. To swerve meant wrecking the car and possibly injuring or killing its occupants.

He applied both brakes, but the metal-shod tyres slithered on the greasy tramlines. The next instant the impact occurred.

It was the cycle that bore the brunt of the collision. Its rider, with considerable dexterity, had dismounted, and leaping into safety had left his machine to meet destruction. The dray, pulling up, filled almost the whole of the archway, with its bonnet within a couple of inches of the tail of the car.

Within a few seconds a crowd had collected. The traffic was held up while the policeman, note-book in hand, was taking particulars of the accident.

"Take this," whispered the baronet, pushing a small blue-covered case into Villiers' hand. "It's my driving licence."

"Have you a licence, sir?" inquired the policeman

"I have," replied Villiers truthfully. "Here it is."

The guardian of the law was visibly impressed by the name.

"Very good, sir," he said saluting. "Merely a matter of form. I don't think you'll hear anything further about the accident. The cyclist was entirely in the wrong."

"Punctual to the minute," remarked Sir Hugh, as the car drew up in front of Richborough Chambers. "Hallo! Where's that attaché-case?"

It had vanished. Thinking perhaps that the sudden application of the brakes had jerked it under the seat, the baronet made a comprehensive search, but without result.

"Rotten luck," commented Villiers.

"Might have been worse," rejoined Sir Hugh oracularly. "Let's get in and see what's doing. The commissionaire will give an eye to the car."

He led the way to a large room on the ground floor. From the adjoining room came the subdued hum of voices.

"Adventure aspirants," remarked Sir Hugh, nodding his head in the direction whence the sounds came. "You'll be my secretary pro tem., Villiers. Cast your eye over these letters and see if you recognize any of the writers."

He handed Villiers a bundle of about thirty envelopes.

"I know three of these names," replied Jack, after scanning the contents of the communications. "Merridew, O'Loghlin, and Fontayne."

"Anything detrimental?"

"To the contrary," replied Villiers.

"Good! We'll see them first. But one moment, I want an advertisement drafted, something to this effect:—'Lost from car, between Winchester and Southampton, attaché-case, containing papers of no value except to owner—no, say owners. Finder will be liberally rewarded on returning same.' That ought to fetch 'em."

"Is the loss a very serious matter," asked Villiers.

"To someone," replied Harborough. "The case wasn't lost, it was stolen!"

"Stolen?" repeated Jack incredulously.

"Precisely," continued the baronet. "But I'll go into the matter with you later. Now let's interview Messrs. Merridew and Co."

The three ex-officers were considerably surprised when Jack Villiers entered the room where they were waiting, and asked them to "come this way".

"Something good on, old man?" inquired O'Loghlin. "Sure it is if you've got a finger in the pie."

Villiers was non-committal. He did not like the responsibility of advising his former comrades on this particular point.

But in less than five minutes the trio had "signed on", and were told to report at Thalassa Towers at eleven on the following morning.

The next applicant was an R.N.R. officer, Swaine by name, whose chief qualification lay in the fact that he had been employed by a salvage company and was an experienced diver.

"I should think there are plenty of openings for you in England," remarked Harborough.

"So there are, sir," replied Swaine, pulling out a bunch of letters from his pocket. "I've half a dozen jobs to go to in the salvage line, but I've seen enough of the North Sea and the English Channel the last four years. Somewhere in the Pacific would suit me, although you didn't say where, sir. S'long as it's not off Vladivostok, the Behring Straits, or south of the Chloe Archipelago, I'm on it."

The selection business proceeded apace. Two men were "turned down" politely, for Harborough knew what he wanted and meant to get it. He was a shrewd judge of human nature. Another applicant "hedged", tried to be funny by asking irrelevant questions, and, remarking that he wasn't jolly well going to pay to work and chuck good quids away, put on his hat and departed.

The last to be interviewed was a short, small-featured youngster with a very mild voice and manner, who blushed hotly when spoken to and showed considerable hesitation in framing his words. He seemed keen, but Villiers, looking on, felt certain that the youth wouldn't come up to the standard.

"What's your Service experience, my lad?" asked Sir Hugh. "You've forgotten to mention that in your letter."

For answer the youth handed in a sheet of paper—his record of service. Amongst other items it was noted that he was a flying-officer, held the M.C. with bar, and had been twice mentioned in dispatches for brilliant reconnaissance work over the enemy lines and for engaging and destroying three hostile machines. His "Protection Certificate" left no doubt as to the identity of the modest aerial warrior.

"Still keen on flying, Mr. Trevear?"

"Rather," replied the ex-airman with a sudden and unexpected burst of enthusiasm. "I wanted to stay in the R.A.F., but it was no go. Then I applied for a post as pilot at a civilian flying-school, but up to now I've heard nothing."

"Do you know the 'Cormorant' sea-plane?"

"Heard of it, sir," was the reply. "My buses were mono-airplanes, but I think I'd cotton on to a seaplane with very little difficulty."

"Good enough," exclaimed Harborough. "A stout heart goes a long way. Willing to sign on, on the terms I mentioned?"

"Rather," replied the now eager youth.

"That's the lot," commented Sir Hugh, when Villiers and the baronet found themselves alone. "Quite a representative crush, eh? I think they'll shape all right. Now we'll pack up, Beverley and Claverhouse, and get back. There's plenty to be done in the next fortnight."

CHAPTER V

The "Fusi Yama"

"At this stage of the proceedings, gentlemen," began Sir Hugh. "I think it time to reveal all I know concerning the Fusi Yama and her cargo of sunken gold."

It was the first time that the whole of the members of the Salvage Syndicate had assembled at Thalassa Towers, and what might be termed a meeting of the Board was in progress.

The scene was the smoking-room, in which a roaring fire was blazing on the hearth, for the autumn morning was decidedly chilly. On the oaken table, and held down by four leaden weights, was an Admiralty Chart of a portion of the Pacific.

"The Fusi Yama, a vessel of 4500 tons, was, you may remember," continued the baronet, "sold by a Japanese firm to a British shipping concern at Shanghai. There was rather a fuss made about it at the time, because in shipping circles it was regarded as somewhat significant that Japan had entered into commercial maritime competition to such an extent that she could build and engine vessels and sell them to a nation that hitherto held the palm for ship-construction.

"This was just before the war, and the Fusi Yama's first voyage under the British flag was from Chi-fu to Liverpool—but the voyage was never completed in the manner intended. Her cargo consisted of cotton and silk and specie and bullion to the value of a million and a half.

"Strictly speaking, the bullion and specie ought to have been sent by a regular mail-steamer, but rumours were in the air of trouble with Germany, and the consigners decided that a steamer running off the recognized route stood a better chance of getting clear of the Pacific than a liner, for there was then a powerful German cruiser-squadron based at Kiao Chau.

"However, the Fusi Yama and her cargo were fully insured, she was classed A1 at Lloyd's, had an experienced and capable skipper, so the underwriters thought they'd struck oil, so to speak.

"On the 2nd August, 1914, the Fusi Yama left Chi-fu; on the 9th she was captured by the German cruiser Nürnburg, but not before her masts were knocked away by shell-fire. You fellows know perfectly well how frequently the Hun got to know of our movements, so, looking back, it was not surprising to learn that the Fusi Yama had been shadowed from the moment she left port. Nor is it when I tell you that I have good reason to believe that the Huns are after that gold too."

A murmur of suppressed excitement ran round the room. Interest in the scheme, already keen, rose to fever-heat. There was a chance, then, of "coming up against Fritz" again, not with steel or bullet but in a contest of wits and skill, and with the almost certainty of a lavish display of low-down trickery on the side of their opponents.

"Then," continued Harborough, "the officers and crew of the captured vessel were transferred to the Nürnburg, a prize-crew was placed on board the Fusi Yama, and the two vessels steamed eastwards. Three days afterwards they fell in with a three-masted Yankee schooner bound from Singapore to 'Frisco. Arrangements were made with the skipper to take off the Fusi Yama's crew. In those days the Huns in the Pacific treated their prisoners well. I'll give them the benefit of the doubt to say that they were fairly straight as Huns go, but it may have been that they knew they were in a tight corner, and until they were out of it they had to behave decently.

"Shortly after that the Nürnburg joined the rest of von Spee's squadron, but without the Fusi Yama. It was naturally concluded that the Huns had removed her valuable cargo and, finding her slow speed a hindrance, had scuttled her.

"At any rate the million and a half had vanished. The under-writers paid up as cheerfully as they could, and wrote off the Fusi Yama as a total constructive loss.

"Now this is where the affair has a personal note. Here let me remark that I bind no one to secrecy over the matter, nor do I make any attempt to do so; but I would like to point out that not only your own but your comrades' interests will be at stake if, even incautiously, you discuss the matter with outside friends or strangers.

"There was on board the Fusi Yama a man named Williams, whom I knew when I was down on my luck in Manitoba. There was a bit of a scrap in camp, and he said I'd done him a good turn. Incidentally, his home in England—or birthplace rather—was close to mine.

"Williams was a dare-devil sort of fellow, and when the crew of the Fusi Yama were placed on board the Nürnburg he had the audacity to disguise himself as a Chinaman, with the result that he was retained by the Huns as a servant. I expect he played up to that, but it was a risky thing to do, although he certainly had features of a Mongolian type. He wore a false pigtail, which might have been fatal to him had Fritz taken it into his head to pull that. They did the next best thing; they cut it off, which saved Williams from further anxiety on that score.

"All the time he was keeping his eye on the bullion, so to speak.

"Then a Jap squadron got on von Spee's track and hustled him along. The Nürnburg had taken her prize into an unfrequented lagoon in the Marshall Archipelago, and was preparing to transfer the gold when von Spee heard that not only the Jap squadron but the Australian warships were converging on him.

"So the Fusi Yama was hurriedly scuttled in the lagoon in about fifteen fathoms, with the bullion and specie in her strong-room. Williams was the only human being, except the Nürnburg's crew, who saw the deed done, and he made good use of his eyes and wits.

"Having found out what he wanted, Williams looked out for an opportunity to part company. It was no easy matter, and not until 14th September, when von Spee's squadron was lying in Talcahuano Harbour, did the supposed Chink succeed in getting ashore.

"On 1st November von Spee's vessels sunk the Good Hope and Monmouth in action off the Chilian coast, and about six weeks later the German squadron was destroyed off the Falklands, so had the gold been placed on board the Nürnburg we should not be sitting in this room to-day. In my opinion Sturdee's action and the Zeebrugge business were the two smartest bits of work the British Navy ever did during the war."

"I saw von Spee's squadron," remarked Merridew. "I was only seventeen then, and our home was at Port Stanley. A fellow couldn't help feeling sorry for von Spee, even though he was a Hun. His ships came up quite unsuspectingly to find the old battle-ship Canopus lobbing 12-inch shells at them over the arm of the harbour. Von Spee knew his guns could outrange hers, so he held on. Then he had the shock of his life when he saw tripod masts coming round the corner. He legged it, but it was like a rat trying to get away from a terrier. There were survivors from the Nürnburg."

"Yes," agreed the baronet, "there were. We'll hear about some of them, I fancy. But to get back to friend Williams. Apparently he had a sticky time in Chile, for he was eleven months in hospital at Valparaiso. Then he worked his passage in a Yankee barque to 'Frisco, made his way across the States, and arrived in New York just about the time when the Huns started their unrestricted U-boat campaign. Signing on on board a British tramp, Williams found that once more his luck was out, for three hundred and fifty miles west of the Irish coast the tramp was torpedoed, and the survivors spent sixty hours in an open boat in heavy seas before being rescued.

"By a curious coincidence I was patrolling-officer at Falmouth when Williams was brought ashore from a 'P-boat'. I didn't recognize him at first, and no wonder; but he spotted me all right. That was soon after my brother's death, so when Williams was able to be moved I sent him here, but I knew he was done for.

"I saw him again when I was on leave, and it was then that he told me the story of the Fusi Yama's gold, and a week later he died. He left me certain papers and a rough chart showing the lagoon and the approaches. These I kept in the attaché-case which was stolen three days ago."

"Will that affect the expedition?" asked Beverley.

"Only to this extent, I believe," replied Sir Hugh. "We'll have to hurry up and get a move on. This brings me to speak of the opposition show. At present I'm rather hazy concerning the head of the rival party, but I have no hesitation in saying that we are up against a tough proposition. To the best of my belief the directing spirit is a fellow called Kristian Borgen."

"A Hun?" asked Claverhouse eagerly.

"Probably," replied Harborough. "Although just now he pretends he's a Swede. From guarded inquiries that I made at the Foreign Office I find that his papers are in order and that he's a native of Stockholm. If he isn't a Hun, he's probably a pro-German. Most Swedes are or were, because their country is practically contiguous to Germany and also because of the Huns' propaganda in Sweden during the war. Fear of her old enemy, Russia, also made her inclined towards Germany. But if Kristian Borgen is a Swede, he's plenty of Hun pals, amongst them some of the survivors of the Nürnburg."

"Where is the man?" asked Villiers.

"Here, in England," replied the baronet. "Actually in Southampton and taking steps to fit out a rival expedition. Of course as a Swede he is quite at liberty to do so; it is only if he can be proved to be a Hun that we can take action. Personally I like rivalry. It gives a zest to things, provided it is fair and above board, but there's something in the other organization that isn't, as we say in the Service, jonnick."

"Meaning that scrap on the Downs?" remarked Beverley.

"Yes, and the loss of the attaché-case," replied Harborough. "That alone is sufficient to let us know that Kristian Borgen—if my surmise is correct—means business."

"Sufficient, I think, to justify the case being reported to the police," said Claverhouse.

Sir Hugh shook his head.

"I wouldn't have people say that I brought in the police for the purpose of obtaining a free hand in the Fusi Yama treasure-hunt," declared Harborough. "In fact, the least we say about the Fusi Yama for the present the better."

"But why does the fellow come to England to fit out an expedition?" inquired Swaine.

"I rather wondered why he did," replied Sir Hugh. "You know that Scandinavia has been buying hundreds of vessels of various tonnage from us, and Borgen is admittedly an agent for their disposal. He thinks, probably, that he can equip a ship here at less cost and without exciting suspicion. At the same time he can keep an eye on us. Of course I may be totally wrong in my surmise, but this I know: there's dirty work going on, and we'll have to keep our weather eye lifting. So much for that. Now comes another point: the question of a vessel and her equipment."

"Steam or petrol?" asked Fontayne, who in pre-war days had been articled to a marine engineer.

"Neither," replied Harborough. "Coal nowadays is scarce and expensive, especially abroad. Petrol is dangerous: any of you fellows who served on M.L.'s will endorse that statement. No, I'm pinning my faith on heavy oil-engines with hot bulb ignition. They are economical, reliable and fairly simple. I'm also looking for a vessel that has a moderate sail-plan. Now, what do you think of these?"

From a drawer of a pedestal desk the baronet produced a bundle of plans and specifications and placed them on the table.

"Genuine tramp steamers are out of the question," he observed. "The present-day price is much too stiff. Here is a selection of yachts, some returned from Government service, others placed on the sale-list by their owners, who find that the pastime is too expensive for them and must needs leave them to the New Rich. Now, here's the Titania, auxiliary schooner, 260 tons registered and 409 tons Thames measurement, two six-cylinder engines giving her an approximate speed of twelve knots."

"That's not much of a speed," said Villiers.

"No, not compared with the type of vessel that you and I have been accustomed to," agreed Harborough. "Still twelve knots is not to be sneezed at. It is an economical speed. For every additional knot you would require horse-power rising by leaps and bounds and consequently more fuel-space than we can afford. And, of course, with high-speed engines the risk of mechanical breakdowns is higher than with slow-running motors, and, after all, the main object is to get to the Pacific with the least delay. Hence reliability is the thing. The vessel, according to the agent's glowing account, has cruised extensively, including voyages to the West Indies and the Mediterranean."

"Have you seen her?" asked O'Loghlin.

"No, but I propose doing so to-morrow," replied Harborough. "She's lying at Southampton in one of the yards on the Itchen. By the by, does any one here understand heavy oil-engines?"

"I do a bit," replied O'Loghlin. "I had a theoretical course, and during the war I put in three months on the kite-balloon barges. That was in the old R.N.A.S. days."

"All right," concluded Harborough. "That's settled. You, Villiers, had better come along too. Three are quite enough for the selection board."

CHAPTER VI

The Yacht "Titania"

"I say, Sir Hugh is a thundering good sort, old man," observed Beverley.

"Only just found that out, my dear old thing," rejoined Villiers. "What's the wheeze now?" The two chums were "turning in". They shared a room in Thalassa Towers, the rest of the members of the expedition being accommodated in twos and threes in the spacious old building. The appropriation of "cabins", as they preferred to call them, showed Harborough's tact, the various members being invited to share their sleeping-quarters with their special chums.

Claverhouse had elected to share a room with little Trevear on the score that both were ex-members of that modern and glorious branch of the service—the Royal Air Force. There they could talk unlimited "shop ", and exchange reminiscences without feeling that the a-naval men were being "bored stiff" with matters appertaining to aerial navigation.

"The wheeze," replied Beverley, "concerns my young brother, Dick. Sir Hugh suggested that I brought him along. He'd be handy," he added in extenuation.

"Possibly," replied Villiers. "But if this is going to be a risky business, is it fair on the lad? And, again, won't it cut into his education?"

"We went into those questions," said Bobby. "As regards risk, everything in life is a risk, isn't it? and, given reasonable precautions, there appears to be little reason for anxiety on that score. After all, we're on a cruise, not fighting Huns and doing a one-step over mine-fields. And, concerning his education, I agreed with Harborough that travel in itself is an education, and there is no reason why Dick shouldn't keep up his studies. As a further inducement Sir Hugh promised that whatever way the results of the expedition went, he'd be responsible for giving Dick a twelvemonth's course for Sandhurst."

"Jolly decent of him," remarked Villiers. "I wonder why he's going to all this trouble. He doesn't know Dick."

"No," replied Beverley, "he doesn't. Dick's not a bad sort," he added, which was the highest tribute Bobby dared pay his brother before other people. Villiers grunted sleepily.

"In?" he inquired laconically, as he groped for the lanyard attached to the electric-light switch—a device whereby he could turn off the light without getting out of his cot. "My word! It's blowing. Glad I'm not on an M.L. in the North Sea to-night."

"Hold on a minute," exclaimed Beverley. "I wanted to ask you something. Is Harborough very worried about that stolen attaché-case?"

"I don't know," replied Villiers. "I expect he is, but he doesn't say much."

"There are the plans and charts relating to the Fusi Yama in it, aren't there?"

"B'lieve so," admitted Villiers. "Makes things a bit complicated. However, I'll back Sir Hugh against Borgen any old time. Good night."

Next morning, according to previous arrangements, Harborough, Villiers, and O'Loghlin motored to Southampton to inspect the Titania.

At first sight the yacht did not convey a favourable impression. She had only recently turned from Admiralty service, and looked very dilapidated in her garb of grey, striped with innumerable rust-stains. She was lying in a mud-berth, and, the tide being low, a considerable part of her weed- and barnacle-covered bottom showed above the mud. Her tapering pole-masts, once resplendent in all the glories of varnish, were coated with battle-ship grey paint; her standing rigging was in a deplorable condition. An unsightly deck-house built above the original saloon added to the picture of neglect, for most of the sheet-glass panes were broken. In her present state no man intent upon the joys of yachting would have looked at her twice.

But Harborough was nothing if not practical. Appearance mattered little to him. In that neglected craft he saw seaworthiness and utility. Paint and varnish might make a crank vessel smart, but they would never make her seaworthy, but the Titania, despite her woebegone appearance, gave indications of being a good, all-round, hard-weather boat.

"A fairly flat bilge and a clean run aft," commented Sir Hugh. "If it came to a push she'd take hard ground pretty comfortably. Let's get aboard and see what she looks like 'tween decks."

The Titania was not a modern vessel by any means. Her schooner bow and rather long counter proclaimed her as a late Victorian. As a matter of fact her papers showed that she had been built at Dumbarton in 1900. The heavy oil-engines were fairly recent additions, or rather a substitute for the triple-expansion engines with which she was supplied immediately following her launch.

She was built of steel with teak decks, and twenty years had had very little effect upon her structure. Apparently she had been used for mine-laying during the war, for a steel trough had been built aft projecting a couple of feet over her counter. Amidships were two motor-driven winches, also added for war purposes, and evidently not considered worth removing before she was handed back from service. Right for'ard, in addition to the hand-operated capstan, was a powerful steam-capstan, the engine and oil-fed boiler of which were placed in the fo'c'sle.

"Rather cuts up the crew-space," commented Sir Hugh. "Fortunately, that doesn't affect us. But these capstans and winches are the very thing. What do you make of them, O'Loghlin?"

The engineering expert plunged into a maze of technical detail. Harborough listened as if he enjoyed it, but whether he did was a debatable point.

"But will they work, do you think?" he inquired at last.

"Give me a week on them and they'll work," replied O'Loghlin confidently.

The original engine-room had been gutted, and had been used as a hold, although, when the yacht had been converted from steam to heavy oil, the engine-space had been made into an additional saloon with store-space below. The present propelling-machinery was well aft, and in spite of their rusty condition the twin-motors were in serviceable order. Not only were the original oil-tanks left, but there were two large tanks, capable of taking a thousand gallons of fuel, installed immediately for'ard of the engine-room.

"She's just the thing for an ocean voyage," declared Harborough. "Don't you think so, Villiers?"

"Economical and easily handled, I should say," replied Jack. "I believe she'd give a good account of herself in a seaway."

"Let's look at the accommodation aft," said Sir Hugh. "We've to berth twenty without undue crowding, remember."

They made their way to the main saloon, which was lighted solely by skylights during the day. It was in a deplorable state, the teak and mahogany fittings being almost destitute of varnish and showing signs of not only hard but rough usage. Hardly a glass panel remained.

"Someone's been turning the ship into a bear-garden," commented Villiers.

"Fortunately, we're not sybarites," added Harborough. "Comfort's the main thing. I don't suppose the absence of looking-glass panels on the wall will worry us. She seems fairly dry, I think."

"Yes," agreed Jack. "Her decks are well laid, and that's a lot to be thankful for. Haven't spotted a sign of moisture anywhere below."

Opening out of the saloon were eight cabins, four on either side, each lighted by a port, which, when closed, was fitted with a glass scuttle. From the saloon an alley-way ran right aft to a spacious cabin, extending the extreme width of the ship under the poop. Four cabins large enough for double berths opened out of the alley-way.

"She's like a young liner," commented Harborough. "Plenty of room for the whole crowd of us. Well, that's about all. The sails and the rest of the inventory are in the store. Now, candidly, what do you think of her? Of course, she'll want a lot of refitting."

"She's just the thing, I think," declared Villiers.

"Yes," corroborated O'Loghlin. "There's precious little to find fault with the engines, as far as I can see."

"As regards the refitting," continued Villiers, "we can do most of that ourselves. We are all of us handy men. The only difficulty is the docking."

"That will have to be done by professional hands," said the baronet. "If we purchase the Titania, docking and coating the bottom with anti-fouling will be the first job. Right-o; let's call on the agent and prepare to haggle over terms."

The yacht's agent received them without emotion. He was so dubious about selling the vessel, even when there was a "boom" in shipping, that he made no attempt to sing the praises of the neglected maiden. He had had dozens of prospective purchasers during the recent period following the yacht's release from Admiralty service, and every one had gone away without attempting to close with the deal.

"Well, Mr. Strangeways," began Sir Hugh, "you've brought us down here to see a most disreputable old tub."

The agent shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly.

"You asked for particulars, sir, and we sent them," he replied. "She's not like the Asteria and the Falala, both of which are on our books if you wish to inspect. But consider the price asked for the Titania—a mere song."

"That's what I am considering," agreed Sir Hugh, grimly. "By the time she's fitted out, taking into consideration present-day prices of labour and material, she'll cost a small fortune. And even then she won't be a modern vessel by any means. No, sorry to trouble you, but I'm afraid there's nothing doing."

"Perhaps, sir," said Mr. Strangeways, metaphorically grasping at the last straw, "you might care to make an offer?"

"My price is fifteen hundred," declared the baronet promptly. "Not a penny more."

"Impossible, my dear sir," protested the agent, raising his hands in mock dismay.

"Sorry, good morning," said Harborough. "Come along, you fellows; we'll be late for lunch if we don't get a move on."

For the next two days Sir Hugh lay low; but he was far from inactive. As for the agent, he was simply bombarded with applications to inspect the dilapidated Titania, for during those two days fifteen individuals called in person, and in every case they either declared bluntly that they wouldn't touch the yacht at any price or else offered various sums none of which exceeded thirteen hundred and fifty pounds. Nor did they think fit to enlighten the now thoroughly harassed Mr. Strangeways with the information that they were members of a syndicate of which Sir Hugh Harborough was the head.

And since the reserve price of the Titania was £1450, and Mr. Strangeways had a reason for disposing of her promptly in order to close an account with her present owner, Sir Hugh evinced no untoward surprise when he received a prepaid wire:

"Does offer £1500 for Titania still hold good? If so, will accept."

Within three hours of the receipt of the telegram the "Fusi Yama Syndicate" was in possession of sixty-four sixty-fourths shares of the yacht Titania.

CHAPTER VII

Sand-bagged

During the next three weeks there was plenty of work for all hands. It was hard work, too; but everyone stuck to it grimly and determinedly in spite of aching muscles, blistered hands, and a variety of small ailments consequent upon unaccustomed handling of white-lead, paint, tar, pitch, and sooji-mooji.

The latter was unanimously voted a tough proposition. Composed principally of caustic soda, it is the shell-back's sheet anchor where old paint has to be removed. The amateur crew of the Titania found that it removed other things as well—for it burnt into their fingers, had a decided tendency towards destroying their clothes, and not infrequently spoiled their foot-gear.

There were other minor casualties. Griffiths, an ex-R.E. officer, and one of the two representatives of the British Army amongst the Titania's ship's company, found by practical experience that a marline-spike has a sharp point, and that even when dropped from a height of a couple of feet can rightly claim to be best man in an encounter with a human toe. Merridew, too, discovered, to his extreme physical inconvenience, that there are two ways of using an adze—the right and the wrong. Subsequent reflection on the part of the victim resulted in a decision that there was even a better way of dealing with adzes—to leave them severely alone.

Also the amount of brain-work required to equip and provision the ship was not small. Nothing superfluous was to be taken—only the absolute essentials. In the old days, "when there was a war on", procuring stores for M.L.'s was a comparatively simple matter. The officer in charge signed a "demand note" for a quantity in excess of what he actually required, taking this step to safeguard himself against the parsimony of an official known as a Naval Stores Officer, who had a nasty habit of cutting down the demands. In the case of the Titania's equipment this would have been a financial disaster. Each man knew in effect it was his own money that he was laying out and acted accordingly.

Within eight days of the purchase the Titania was docked, cleaned, and "compoed", undocked and berthed alongside a wharf. This had been done by the yacht-yard hands, but Harborough and his "merry buccaneers", as he generally referred to them, were toiling like galley-slaves.

The grey, rust-stained sides had been scraped and had been given two out of a final three coats of white paint, and white paint at the present time costs money. But it was money well laid out. The health and comfort of the ship's company, as the yacht sweltered in the Tropics, depended largely upon the almost non-absorbing properties of white paint to the terrific glare of the sun.

The grimy decks were scraped and then scrubbed with wet sand; the dull varnish on the teak-work was removed and the bare wood given three coats of copal. The masts were rubbed down and painted a pale-buff colour, and the whole of the standing and running rigging renewed. Fortunately, the sails were in excellent condition.

"What arms are we taking?" asked Villiers.

"Nothing very formidable," replied Harborough, who, at his own request, was no longer addressed as Sir Hugh by his fellow adventurers. "I don't anticipate any scrapping. Bloodthirsty cannibals are back numbers in the part of the Pacific we are making for, and I don't suppose that our rival treasure-hunters will go to the extent of armed aggression."

"Still, we ought to be prepared for emergencies," rejoined Villiers. "There's virtue in the barrel of a Maxim gun."

Harborough shook his head.

"Not always," he replied. "When there's a hot-headed fellow fingering the firing-button, for instance. No, no; we'll dispense with a Maxim or a Lewis. A couple of rifles will be useful, perhaps, and half a dozen automatic pistols. I'll take a dozen 12-bore shot guns. It's remarkable what a deterrent a charge of small shot can be. Verey Lights and rockets we'll take. You might see to the ship's armoury. Most of the guns, the rifles, and two automatic pistols are already at Thalassa Towers. Bring them down next time you have room in the car. Oh, by the by, you might read this."

He handed Villiers a long blue envelope. Within was a communication from the underwriters of s.s. Fusi Yama agreeing to grant Sir Hugh Harborough the sole rights of salvage subject to a 5-per-cent royalty.

"Five per cent," exclaimed Harborough. "Evidently they think we're on a fool's errand. However, now everything is fair and above board. We are the legitimate firm; Borgen & Co. are mere interlopers."

"Talking about Borgen," observed Villiers, "just step aft a minute. See that tramp lying alongside Anstruther's Wharf? The one with the black, yellow, and blue funnel."

"Ay," assented Harborough. "Is she our rival?"

"I don't know—yet," replied Jack. "We haven't our intelligence Department in full working order at present. All I know—on the authority of the Yard Foreman—is that she's the Geier, one of Germany's surrendered mercantile fleet, and she's just been sold to a Swedish firm."

"And thence back to Germany," commented Harborough. "Verily the ways of our politicians passeth understanding. However, if Kristian Borgen has a finger in that pie we'll have to watch the Geier."

Villiers laughed.

[Illustration: SANDBAGGED]

"Shouldn't be surprised if the Geier's people haven't been watching us pretty carefully for the last few days," he remarked. "Don't you think it would be as well if a couple of us slept on board in future? Several of the cabins are quite habitable."

"There's a night watchman," observed Harborough.

"Yes, for the whole of this yard," added Jack. "He can't be everywhere at once."

"Very good," agreed Harborough. "Pick out two of the crowd and warn 'em for sleeping aboard."

"I'll take the first week," volunteered Villiers. "Beverley will, too. And we may as well have Tommy on board."

Tommy was an Aberdeen terrier belonging to Sir Hugh—a sharp-faced, long-nosed little animal who seemed to be perpetually asleep with one eye open all the time.

"Good enough," agreed Harborough. "Seen O'Loghlin about? I want to speak to him about those diving-dresses."

Four more days passed—the days in strenuous activity, the nights in utter tranquillity. Villiers and Beverley found the new arrangement quite comfortable. They were afloat once more, even though the Titania was berthed alongside a wharf in a sheltered tidal river. During working-hours a "brow" or gangway gave access to the vessel, but when the working-party packed up, the brow was removed, and the only means of direct communication with the shore was a wire "Jacob's Ladder" that led to a long raft moored between the Titania and the jetty, whence a wooden ladder, its lower rungs slippery with weed as the tide fell, enabled access to the wharf.

It was Saturday evening. Manual work on board had been set aside to be resumed early on Monday morning. Beverley, who was beginning to feel the strain of long hours and hard toil, had turned in early. Villiers, with the small table of his cabin covered with technical books, was deep in Norrie's Epitome and The Nautical Almanac for 1920.

"Yacht, ahoy!"

Jack heard the hail but did not stir. Calls of that sort were common, considering that there were half a dozen yachts, with hands living on board, lying in the tier out in the stream.

"Titania, ahoy!"

"For goodness sake why didn't you say so before?" exclaimed Villiers to himself. "Where's Tommy? Why didn't he bark, I wonder?"

Getting into his pilot-coat, for the night air blew coldly down the river and contrasted forcibly with the warm cabin, Villiers went on deck.

"Ahoy, there!" he exclaimed.

On the edge of the wharf stood a man with his back to the feeble gleam of a gas-lamp.

"Telegram for Harborough, yacht Titania," he announced. "Prepaid wire."

"Come aboard," said Jack.

"Sorry, sir," was the reply. "I'm a stranger to this sort of game. No hand at ladders, I'm not."

Considering the awkward means of gaining the Titania's deck, the man's objection was reasonable enough, so Villiers descended the wire-rope ladder, crossed the raft, and ascended the vertical steps. The tide had almost finished on the flood, and there were only a few rungs to scale.

"Prepaid, eh?" remarked Villiers. "All right. I have a pencil. Let's go under the gas-lamp."

The next instant a multitude of dazzling lights flashed before his eyes, and without a cry he pitched head-long on his face.

* * * * *

"Jack, old thing!" shouted Beverley, throwing back his blankets and jumping from his cot. "What's the time? Why, it's eight bells! Who's turn is it to light the stove this morning?"

Receiving no reply from the adjoining cabin, Bobby laid hold of a sponge, dipped it in the water-jug, and made his way softly to Villiers' berth. He opened the door and looked in.

"What's he doing?" he thought in wonderment, for the cot had not been slept in. The lamp was still alight, but on the point of burning itself out. It was an oil-lamp, for the electric-lighting arrangements were not yet in working order. The table was littered with books, two of them open, while a pipe, with a small heap of white ash, lay upon the open page of the Nautical Almanac.

"I believe he's been swotting all night, the mouldy old book-worm," thought Beverley. "Now he's gone to the bathroom to shove his heated brow in cold water."

But the bathroom was empty. A hurried search brought no sign of his chum—nor of the dog.

Fearful of his own surmises, Bobby looked over the side. Almost the first thing he noticed was the dead body of Tommy left stranded on the mud by the falling tide, but of Villiers not a trace.

Even as he looked at the unfortunate Aberdeen, a swell threshed sullenly against the evil-smelling mud and lifted the dog's body a couple of feet or so nearer the weed-covered piles. A steamer had just passed—a tramp, outward bound, with the name Zug—Malmo, on her stumpy counter.

CHAPTER VIII

The "Titania" Sails

Filled with the deepest apprehensions concerning the fate of his chum, Bobby Beverley was not content to think. He acted.

As it was yet early in the morning, and a Sunday, there were no signs of activity in the yacht-yard. The night watchman, his duties over with the rising of the sun, had taken himself home; the watchkeepers on board the various craft were still sleeping soundly in the knowledge that there was no pressing need for them to turn out.

Slipping over the side, Beverley gained the wharf. There were no signs of a struggle, and the hoar-frost that covered the tarred planking was destitute of human or canine foot-prints. Only a number of triangular marks on the white covering showed that sea-birds had been waddling about the jetty.

Suddenly Beverley caught sight of a crumpled paper that had wedged in a projection of a heap of rusty iron. It was the telegraph-form that Villiers had gone ashore to receive when he was struck down by a cowardly blow. On it were the words:—

"Harborough, yacht Titania. Cannot keep appointment Monday. Will Tuesday same time suit?

"Heatherington."

"H'm; no postmark," commented Bobby. "Looks like a plant. Wonder if this has anything to do with Villiers' absence?"

Folding the crumpled paper, Beverley placed it carefully in his pocket-book. Then, making his way across the encumbered yard, he stopped outside the manager's office. As he expected, the door was locked securely, but Beverley was not going to stick at trifles.

With a piece of iron-bar he deliberately smashed a pane of glass. Then inserting his hand through the jagged pane he shot back the window-catch. It was then an easy matter to gain admittance.

He lifted the receiver of the telephone, and in less than a minute and a half he had secured a trunk-call to Thalassa Towers.

"Hallo!" exclaimed a faint and indistinct voice.

"That Harborough?" inquired Bobby. "Beverley speaking."

"No, I'm Claverhouse, old bean," was the reply. "Why this activity on the Sabbath morn? Anything wrong?"

"Yes," replied Beverley. "Jack's missing—Jack Villiers. Eh? what's that? No, I didn't say—Oh! Dash it all, they've cut me off."

He replaced the receiver and again rang up the exchange, demanding peremptorily why the interruption had occurred.

"You must have cut yourself off," replied the operator. "Stand by."

Bobby "stood by" for another five minutes—minutes that passed with leaden feet.

"There's no reply," came the matter-of-fact voice of the exchange operator. "This is Andover speaking."

"I say!" exclaimed Beverley in desperation. "Can you send an express messenger to Thalassa Towers?"

"Sorry," was the calm reply. "You must try a post office. It opens at nine on Sundays."

Beverley replaced the receiver with a vicious bang. Then he rang up again, this time obtaining a call to the yard-manager's private house.

That functionary's temper was far from amiable when he found himself called from his bed, in the early hours of a chilly late-autumn morning, to receive a bald announcement from the intruder's own lips that the latter had deliberately broken a window in the office and had temporarily installed himself.

"There's no need to bring a policeman along with you," added Beverley reassuringly, "but come as soon as possible. No, I've disturbed nothing. There's no cause for alarm as far as you are concerned."

Bobby replaced the instrument and sat down in the padded-leather arm-chair, the while keeping a look-out upon the Titania.

In about twenty minutes the manager arrived, unkempt and unshorn. To him Beverley explained the situation, requesting that someone could be sent either in a car or on a motor-cycle to inform Sir Hugh Harborough of the grave news.

"Have you informed the police?" asked the manager, the while covertly glancing round the room to assure himself that nothing had been tampered with.

"I'd rather wait till I've seen Sir Hugh," replied Bobby. "Of course the whole thing may turn out to be a mare's nest; but the dog——"

"Where is the dog?" asked the manager.

"On the mud—dead."

"Wouldn't it be as well to recover the body," suggested the now interested man. "That might afford some information. I'll hang on here."

Beverley fell in with the idea. Procuring a boat-hook from the yacht, he succeeded in recovering the Aberdeen's body and laid it on the raft.

Just as he had completed the task there came the hoot of a car, and a minute later Harborough appeared accompanied by Claverhouse, O'Loghlin, Fontayne, Swaine, and Trevear.

Harborough had received a portion of Bobby's telephonic message, from which he concluded that something was amiss; and without delay the six men drove at record speed to Southampton.

"Something decidedly wrong," declared Harborough, as he descended to the raft and examined the body of his pet. The dog's mouth was inflamed and discoloured. Death had been caused not by drowning but by poison.

Beverley handed his chief the telegram.

"Fake," declared Harborough promptly. "I know no one of the name of Heatherington; still less have I an appointment with him. I'd like to meet the fellow who composed this," he added.

A thorough examination of the Titania resulted in nothing of a suspicious nature being discovered. Assuming on the strength of the faked telegram and the poisoned dog that there had been an attempt at murder, kidnapping, or sabotage, there was nothing on board to justify the assumption that an effort had been made to injure the vessel.

"I don't see why Villiers was singled out for rough treatment," observed Harborough. "He had no personal enemies, had he?"

Beverley shook his head.

"Not to my knowledge," he replied. "Jack is one of the best, absolutely."

"Perhaps you were the intended victim," suggested Claverhouse.

"Oh!" ejaculated Harborough. "I won't contradict your supposal; but on what grounds, might I ask, do you make your assumption?"

"The faked message was addressed to you," replied Alec.

"Perhaps you're right," replied Harborough thoughtfully. "But it doesn't say much for the other fellows' intelligence department—mistaking Villiers for me. However, we must inform the police."

"The police?" echoed Beverley, bearing in mind Sir Hugh's reluctance on a previous occasion to communicate with the law.

"Unfortunately, yes," replied the baronet. "It is regrettable from a professional point of view, but we owe it to Jack Villiers. Hallo! The Geier has gone."

The Swedish-owned tramp had vanished from her accustomed berth. In her place lay a vessel very similar, even to the funnel-markings.

"Suppose you didn't notice her go down stream, Beverley?" inquired Harborough.

"By Jove!" exclaimed Bobby. "A tramp like her went out this morning—the Zug of Malmo."

"Possibly the same old hooker," commented Harborough. "Well, let's make for the police-station."

Three days passed. The mystery of Jack Villiers' disappearance remained unsolved. A police-inspector called upon Kristian Borgen in his office, but the Swede gave a complete explanation of his movements. It was true, he stated, that the Geier was bought by his firm and that her name was changed to Zug—a fact advertised beforehand in the press according to the requirements of the British Mercantile Shipping Act. The Zug had sailed for the Baltic and was due at Stockholm on the 30th inst. Her clearance-papers were quite in order.

The inspector, fully convinced that he had been put on a false trail, shook hands with Borgen, apologizing for having inconvenienced him, to which the amiable Swede replied that it was no inconvenience whatsoever, and that he was only too happy at all times to assist the law of the land that had offered him a temporary home.

Meanwhile there was no cessation of activity in the work of fitting out the Titania. Everyone on board realized that Villiers would have wished it so. But there was a feeling of depression that it was impossible to shake off. The uncertainty of Jack Villiers' fate, on the eve of what promised to be a successful enterprise, cast a shadow of gloom upon the proceedings.

The day of the Titania's departure having been fixed, Harborough saw no insurmountable reason for postponing it, and the rest of the crew agreed with him.

"If Villiers does turn up," he explained, "he can join us anywhere between here and Singapore; and delay will only mean increasing risks on the score of bad weather, to say nothing of the possibility of our rivals turning up before us."

So at 9 a.m., early in the month of November, the yacht Titania, Hugh Harborough, Master, slipped her moorings, and at a modest six knots dropped down Southampton Water on her long voyage to the Pacific. There were two absentees from her full complement, Jack Villiers was one, the other was Dick Beverley. An epidemic of mumps was raging in the school, and a swollen face intervened between Dick and a visit to the enchanting South Seas.

CHAPTER IX

"Where am I?"

Jack Villiers opened his eyes slowly, only to shut them again. During the first moments of returning consciousness he was aware of a dull throbbing pain in the region of the nape of his neck—a pain that became almost excruciating when he made an effort to rise.

It was some moments before he attempted to reopen his eyes. With his brain working slowly, he tried to account for his present state of discomfort. Something was wrong—what? Had he been playing Rugger, and been carried off the field? No; it couldn't be that. He hadn't played footer for months. Strafed by Huns? Wrong again: he realized that he had been "demobbed" and that there was no longer a war on. Yet he was on board ship. He could feel the steady pulsations of the engines and the thud of the propeller-shaft not so very far beneath him. Odours of an unmistakably "shippy" nature assailed his nostrils. Yes, he was at sea. The Titania was under way.

Yet that theory puzzled him. She wasn't ready for sea. Beverley and he were sleeping on board, and——

With an effort he raised himself on one elbow and tried to shout his chum's name. But not a sound came from his parched throat. His tongue, feeling as if it had swollen to abnormal dimensions, seemed to press, hot and dry, against the roof of his mouth.

"Dash it all!" he ejaculated mentally. "Haven't I got a fat head? Where am I?"

By degrees he became more rational. He lay still, not daring to move. Even then every roll of the ship sent thrills of acute pain over his body.

At first when he opened his eyes everything appeared to be of a dull-reddish tinge, but presently the lurid mist cleared away and he found himself watching an oval-shaped patch of light that, penetrating a solitary scuttle, danced up and down the opposite bulkhead with every movement of the vessel.

"What cabin is this?" he thought. "It's not mine; proper sort of a dog-box this. Who put me in here?"

It was indeed a sorry sort of place. The walls and ceiling were covered with cork-cement that was dripping with moisture. At one time the composition had been painted white. It was now a sickly yellow streaked with iron-rust. On the floor was a ragged piece of oak linoleum. Underneath the scuttle, which was closed and secured by a tarnished brass butterfly nut, was a bunk on which a piece of old canvas had been placed to form a rough and ready mattress. And on the bunk, with his head supported by a folded coat—his own, lay Jack Villiers.

Further investigation showed that he was dressed in his own trousers, socks, pants, and vest—and nothing more. His boots, shirt, and waistcoat had gone.

"Good heavens!" he thought, as the full significance of his position came home to him like a flash. "I've been shanghaied. Yes, I remember, a fellow called me about a telegram."

Slowly he raised his arm and, bringing his hand back, very gingerly rubbed his skull. There was a raised bruise that felt as large as a duck's egg.

"Sandbagged!" he decided. "The rival crowd is one up. Well, I suppose I'll be able to find out now who the fellows are. Wonder why they singled me out for their unwelcome attentions."

As a matter of fact it was a case of mistaken identity. On that momentous Saturday night one of the crew of the Zug—ex. Geier—who was a past master in the art of speaking colloquial English, hailed from the wharf-wall, fully expecting that Sir Hugh Harborough was one of the two persons on board the Titania. The pseudo messenger was not alone. Skulking behind a rusty and condemned ship's boiler were three powerful men, one armed with a length of rubber pipe filled with sand, and the others holding ropes and a gag in readiness should the persuasive methods of the loaded india-rubber pipe fail.

Unsuspecting and quite unprepared for foul play, Villiers was struck down from behind. There was no need to gag and bind him. Quickly and silently the four men carried their victim to a slipway, where a boat lay in readiness. It was quite a simple matter and almost devoid of risk. The night was dark, and even had there been any of the crews of the neighbouring vessels about, the statement that it was only a drunken man being taken off to his ship would have allayed suspicion. But, unseen and unchallenged, the emissaries of Kristian Borgen conveyed their senseless victim on board the Zug.

Kristian Borgen was waiting to receive them in the tramp's dingy state-room. Save for his own assertion and the fact that he spoke Swedish fluently and possessed credentials (forged, no doubt) from Stockholm, there was nothing Swedish about him. He was a Hun, and a Prussian at that. His real name was Kaspar von Giespert, and he had been an Unter-Leutnant of the German light cruiser Dresden. He knew the story of the Fusi Yama's sunken gold, having heard it from a brother-officer serving on board the Nürnburg, but he was not at all sure of the actual position of the wreck. The Dresden escaped the fate that overtook her consorts in the engagement with Sturdee off the Falkland Islands, but afterwards met with an ignominious end by being sunk by her own crew at Juan Fernandez—Alexander Selkirk's famous island. On the approach of a British cruiser, von Giespert was interned by the Peruvian Government until the end of the war, and upon being released promptly returned to Germany with the object of fitting out an expedition to search for the lost gold.

There were serious difficulties in his path. The partial surrender of Germany's mercantile fleet had made it an impossible matter to procure a ship in any German port. As a Hun, von Giespert knew that "his name was mud" in almost every important seaport on the Atlantic and Pacific shores. A nation cannot "run amok" and institute a policy of "sink everything without trace" and then expect to be treated on a pre-war footing by the States whose flags she has wantonly flouted and insulted. So von Giespert, quick to realize that as a German he was "down and out", had no qualms about renouncing, temporarily at all events, his nationality and becoming Kristian Borgen, a Swede. And as such he found little difficulty in taking up his abode in Southampton, whence he could control his latest mercantile enterprise with comparative ease.

He had succeeded in getting a picked crew of twenty-two German seamen—men who in pre-war days had served in the British Mercantile Marine, where frequently 75 per cent of a crew sailing under the Red Ensign were either "Dagoes" or "Dutchies". And these men could all speak English as spoken on shipboard, and most of them, with the Hun's versatility in learning languages, were equally at home with Swedish.

Von Giespert had a firm hold upon his band of desperadoes. For one thing he paid them well and made fair promises of a substantial share of the treasure, if and when it were recovered. Anyone possessing capital could do that, but von Giespert, being a Hun, went further. The men he picked carefully from the crews of certain U-boats whose record of piracy was of the blackest—men who had carried out infamous orders with alacrity when they thought Germany was winning, and who had not hesitated to mutiny and assault their officers when they discovered the long-hidden truth that all was lost.

Von Giespert knew how to trade upon their fears. He told them that they were "wanted" by the British Government for their past crimes, and that the only safe course for them was to take the bull by the horns, become Swedish subjects, and accept employment in the country that was their former enemy, where, by their audacity, they would fling dust into the eyes of the hated English. The Zug's crew accepted the statement and acted with corresponding discretion.

For the present he had no intention of sailing on the s.s. Zug for the Pacific. He was content to allow the vessel to proceed in the charge of Siegfried Strauss, who had been a quarter-master in the North German Lloyd Line before serving in the Imperial navy. Strauss was under orders to navigate the Zug by a circuitous route round the Cape of Good Hope and pick up his employer at Batavia.

"Donnerwetter! Who is this?" inquired von Giespert angrily, as the unconscious Villiers was unceremoniously dumped at his feet. "This is not Harborough."

The kidnappers cowered before the wrath of their Prussian pay-master.

"This is the man who has been on board for the last four or five nights, Herr Kapitan," replied one.

"He seemed in authority."

"You've blundered," declared von Giespert, "and you cannot undo your mistake. Let us hope that his absence will throw that fellow Harborough's plans out of gear. Herr Strauss, are you all ready to proceed?"

"The pilot will not be on board before six tomorrow," replied Strauss. "Those were your instructions."

"Very good," rejoined von Giespert. "We must have a pilot, of course. Now when you drop him, steer eastwards to a point roughly ten miles beyond the Nab Lightship. Then you know the rest. Keep this fellow well out of sight. If he gives no trouble, carry him on to Las Palmas and land him there. If he kicks, then drop him overboard. In any case hoodwink him and try to find out our rivals' programme."

Forty-eight hours had elapsed since then, and Jack Villiers was recovering his scattered senses. In that respect he was not helped when the door of his cabin was opened and two men entered.

One—Strauss—was rigged out in a blue-serge suit with gilt buttons and a double line of gold braid round his cuffs. The other man was dressed in a pale-blue shirt, open at the neck, and a pair of canvas trousers.

"So you are recovering," observed Strauss in an almost faultless English accent.

Villiers tried to reply, but his parched throat gave no sound.

"Bring some brandy," ordered Strauss, turning to his subordinate.

The strong spirit had the effect of reviving Jack considerably. He found his tongue.

"Where am I?" he demanded.

"On the s.s. Zug," was the reply. "We picked you up seven miles south of St. Catherine's."

"Oh!" ejaculated Villiers, taken aback by this astonishing intelligence. "How——"

"Don't talk," protested Strauss, with mock sympathy. "You're very weak. I'll tell you. It was two days ago. We are bound from Malmo to Monte Video, and this is a Swedish ship. Two days ago, I say, we were standing down Channel when we sighted a ship's lifeboat drifting. We altered our course, and on approaching we found you lying unconscious on the stern-gratings. We did not touch at an English port, nor did we sight any vessel bound up-Channel; so it seems as if you must enjoy our hospitality until we reach Las Palmas."

"Haven't you wireless?" inquired Villiers.

The acting skipper of the Zug shook his head.

"Otherwise we would be able to oblige you," he added. "But I will see that you are made comfortable. Do you wish for anything to eat?"

Villiers felt far from wanting food. His throat was still painful, and his head ached fearfully.

"I'm thirsty," he replied.

The two men went out, returning in a few minutes with a hair mattress and pillow and a basin of hot soup.

"Take this and go to sleep," said Strauss, when the fresh bedding had been substituted for the canvas sacking. "I will look in again in half an hour or so."

Villiers managed to finish the soup, although every spoonful required an effort to swallow. Then he lay back, wondering and pondering over the brief story that the Zug's master had just told him.

"Boats cost money, especially nowadays," he soliloquised. "Wonder why I was cast adrift in a lifeboat when they might have dumped me into the ditch? That would have saved them a lot of expense and would have covered their tracks. Well, here I am, able to sit up and take nourishment, but beyond that—— And Beverley, how's he taking it? I suppose they didn't sandbag him, too?"

Still puzzling his tired brain over his strange predicament, Villiers dropped into a fitful slumber.

CHAPTER X

A Choice of Two Evils

Siegfried Strauss did his level best to carry out his employer's instructions to hoodwink the abducted Villiers. For the first two days following Jack's return to consciousness the Englishman was treated with every possible consideration. At least that was how it struck Villiers.

Hourly his strength returned and with it his reasoning powers. He was well supplied with food—of the average quality to be found on tramps—and was allowed to sit on deck.

Then one or two things began to strike him as being somewhat peculiar. Strauss evinced a decided tendency to prevent Villiers from strolling for'ard. On the face of it there could be no satisfactory reason why he should not do so; but Jack, always obliging, fell in with the supposed Swedish skipper's wish.

Then he made another discovery. One of the men left a newspaper wedged in the falls of one of the davits. A gust of wind displaced it and carried it across the deck almost to Villier's feet.

Jack's first impulse was to return it to its owner. A Swedish newspaper would be useless to anyone not possessing a knowledge of that language. But somewhat to his surprise he saw that it was English. His astonishment increased when he found that it was a Southampton paper and dated the Saturday on which he had been foully struck down.

Obviously, Villiers reflected, there was a flaw in Captain Strauss' carefully-pitched yarn. If the Zug had proceeded down-Channel without putting in anywhere and without holding communication with any other craft, how could that paper have found its way on board?

"I'm up against something here," thought Villiers, and proceeded with his investigations. He acted warily, for he was not sure of his ground.

In quite a casual way he refolded the paper and replaced it in the falls; then he made his way for'ard, carrying his chair, until he reached the engine-room's fidley.

Here he sat down and listened through the open gratings. Before long he overheard the engineer shout something to one of his assistants. The voice was plainly audible above the pulsations of the engines, and the words were unmistakably German; so was the reply.

"We're getting on," decided Villiers. "I wonder if this is the Zug. I have my doubts."

He glanced to and fro along the deck. On the fo'c'sle two men were engaged in coiling down a rope. Their backs were turned towards him. Those were the only members of the crew within sight. The helmsman was invisible from the spot where Villiers had taken up his position, owing to the height of the bridge and to the fact that the wheel-house was set well back from the canvas screen running round the bridge stanchion-rails.

Having satisfied himself on this point, Villiers peered through the open fidley into the engine-room. He saw what he expected, for right in the centre of the for'ard engine-room bulkhead was a brass plate setting forth the information that the steamship Geier had been engined in 1904 by the firm of Hopper and Heinz of Stettin.

That ought to have been conclusive, but Villiers did not rest there. After a while he made his way right aft and leant over the stumpy counter. There were the words "Zug—Malmo" written plain for anyone to read, but the letters were freshly painted, and there were signs that a longer word had been somewhat carelessly obliterated.

"Feeling better, Mr. Villiers?" asked Strauss, who happened to come on deck at that moment. "I wouldn't look down if I were you; it won't do your head any good."

Villiers, caught out, made no reply.

"Come and have tea in my cabin," continued the skipper of the Zug, as a preliminary to his ordered task of "pumping" his involuntary guest.

Jack acquiesced.

"What land is that?" he inquired casually, indicating a rugged range of hills about four miles on the port beam.

"Portuguese coast," replied Strauss. "Thinking of swimming there?"

"About a hundred yards is my limit," said Jack. "So I don't think I'll take it on."

Both men descended the companion and entered the cabin, which opened aft out of the saloon, for in her earlier days the s.s. Geier had passenger accommodation in addition to carrying cargo.

Siegfried Strauss waited until tea was served, and, ordering the steward to clear out, prepared to subject his guest to a carefully manipulated cross-examination.

But before he could get in his first question he was totally taken aback when Villiers looked him straight in the face and demanded bluntly.

"Isn't your name Kristian Borgen?"

It was wide of the mark, nevertheless Strauss knew now that Villiers had his suspicions.

"No, it is not," he replied. "I am ready to swear to that."

"What's in a name?" quoted Jack. "I suppose you are equally prepared to swear that you are not a German, and that this vessel isn't the Geier under an assumed name?"

Strauss was on the point of blustering when he bethought himself that it would be advisable to assume a conciliatory and non-committal attitude.

"You are quite under a misapprehension, my friend," he said smilingly. "I don't know why you have adopted this truculent attitude. I suppose you are still feeling the effect of your rough usage. To allay your unfounded suspicions I will show you the ship's papers."

The skipper got up from the table and went to a locker above one of the settees. This he opened and removed a packet of papers. As he did so Jack caught a glimpse of a yellow-leather case boldly stamped with the initials H. H.

It was the identical attaché-case that Sir Hugh Harborough lost from the car at Southampton. Even Villiers was taken aback by the discovery, but, controlling himself, he decided to ignore the facts for the present.

"H'm," he remarked, after he had examined the "Certificate of Registry" and other documents appertaining to the ownership and nationality of the s.s. Zug. "I'll swear those are forgeries. But we'll let that pass. How can you account for the fact that the name Geier is in the engine-room. Beastly careless of you, you know."

Villiers had certainly scored.

Although the change in the ship's name had been publicly advertised, Strauss had tried to conceal the fact from his unwilling guest. Now he had to admit it.

"And you left Southampton early on Sunday morning last," continued Villiers. "I know that, and you can deny it if you like—you did before, you remember—but that won't alter the fact. That's a Hun all over. You couldn't enter into a rivalry with Sir Hugh Harborough on this treasure-hunting stunt without descending to low-down tricks such as waylaying him and sand-bagging me. That's enough to land you in the dock, my festive."

Siegfried Strauss realized that the cat was out of the bag. Unmasked, he was no longer an amiable Swede but an unspeakable Hun.

With a sudden rush he bounded out of the cabin and up the companion-ladder. At the head he paused to reassure himself that Villiers was not in pursuit.

"You've done for yourself, you swine!" he shouted. "Since you have made yourself dangerous there is but one thing to be done—get rid of you."

Jack could hear him bawling for the hands to come aft. He was in a tight corner, but he had no intention of quietly giving in to a swarm of Huns.

Strauss had threatened "to do him in". No doubt he, Villiers, had asked for it when he tackled the fellow. Perhaps it would have been better to have pretended to humour him, and then Strauss might have set him ashore at Las Palmas. But it was too late now. There was no averting the crisis.

For a brief instant Villiers considered the possibility of gaining the bridge and holding it against all corners, but the futility of that plan at once became apparent. He was unarmed; the crew of the Zug were not. Every man carried a sheath-knife, and possibly several had firearms as well.

Acting upon an inspiration, although he hardly knew why, Villiers dragged the missing attaché-case from the locker and ran on deck.

Captain Strauss was still shouting to the crew. He hardly expected Jack would dare to come out of the cabin. When he saw him he attempted to close.

With a pleasurable feeling that he was getting his own back for the sand-bagging affair, Villiers saw the burly German measure his length on the deck as the result of a straight left with the Englishman's fist. For the present Siegfried Strauss ceased to count in the unequal contest.

Three or four of the crew ran on with a rush. Villiers didn't stop to meet them. He was cool enough to realize, in the first sense of elation, that there are limits to human powers. Running aft, he paused only to unship a life-belt and hurl it overboard, then, with the leather case still grasped in his right hand, he leapt over the rail into the sea.

He hit the water with tremendous force, for the Zug was steaming at a good twelve knots. That and his still weak condition almost deprived him of breath. He swallowed a good half-pint of salt water before he rose spluttering to the surface.

Even while he was still under the surface Villiers found himself debating upon the wisdom of his rash act.

"If I hadn't jumped into the ditch," he soliloquized, "those fellows would have slung me in, and perhaps given me another tap on the head just to make things doubly sure. I told friend Strauss that I was good for a hundred yards. So I am at racing-speed. It is now up to me to see if I can cover four or five miles, hampered by a leather bag and a life-buoy."

Why he hung on to the attaché-case he hardly knew. Whatever there was within it was evidently now no secret to the directing spirits behind the s.s. Zug. Even if Harborough's charts and plans were still inside the case, there was every reason to suppose that they had been duly inspected and the information they contained committed to memory. Sir Hugh knew the locality of the wreck, even without the aid of the stolen documents, so, now that the mischief was done, there could be little good served by regaining them.

The attaché-case was well made and the lid fitted closely; consequently it possessed a considerable amount of buoyancy. On coming to the surface Villiers found that he could support himself by the case without much effort, and thus give himself time to take stock of his surroundings.

Fifty yards away floated the life-buoy. Having assured himself of his position, the swimmer devoted his attention to the Zug. Already she was a good cable's length away, and holding on without apparently altering course. Five or six of the crew were standing right aft, and Villiers fancied that he caught the dull glint of the barrel of a rifle.

"They'll put about," he thought, "and either run me down or else put a bullet through my head if they spot me. I don't think they do, although I'm right in the glare of the sun. I'll keep clear of that buoy for a time, though."

Which was sound logic. The white-painted buoy, bobbing up and down over the crests of the waves, was a fairly-conspicuous object—as it was intended to be. But Jack, bareheaded and almost motionless, ran very little risk of being spotted by the crew of the rapidly-receding vessel.

But, contrary to his expectations, the Zug neither altered course nor did her crew open fire. She held on, leaving Villiers to his fate.

"Now for it," he muttered, and, turning on his back and still grasping the recovered attaché-case, he made toward the buoy.

CHAPTER XI

Villiers' Return

The yacht Titania lay at anchor about three hundred yards west of the Old Mole at Gibraltar. The first stage of her long voyage was accomplished, not without difficulties and dangers, for she had encountered bad weather in the Bay, which had continued until she passed Cape St. Vincent. In a way the gale was a blessing in disguise, for it enabled Harborough to put his crew to a severe test in seamanship, and to their credit they came out of the ordeal in quite a praiseworthy manner. The yacht had been able to hold on her course under close-reefed canvas, and had made a fairly-quick passage without having been compelled to use her engines when once clear of the Needles.

Beyond the necessity of having to replenish fresh water, provisions, and consumable stores, the Titania was fully equipped. Each member of the crew responsible for his particular department had carried out his duties thoroughly. Everything necessary for salvage operations was on board—patent, self-contained diving-dresses which enabled their wearers to work independently of air-tubes and pumps, demolition charges, pneumatic drills, tools of various sorts, and chains, ropes, shackles, and blocks, ample for the work, were methodically stored in the holds. The two dwarf seaplanes, which, when packed for transport, took up very little room, had been stowed away under the charge of Claverhouse and Trevear. Griffiths and Bell, the only ex-army men, were responsible for the provisioning of the ship; O'Loghlin and Vivian for the engines, each man working "watch and watch" with an assistant. The rest of the crew formed the amateur deck-hands, Harborough heading the starboard and Beverley the port watch.

Once at sea all hands followed sea routine. A state of discipline prevailed while on duty, although in the "watch below" every man was Tom, Dick, and Harry to his comrades. The system worked well. Every member of the crew had been in a position of more or less authority during the war, and each realized the absolute necessity of discipline. They knew the value of initiative; but initiative, important though it is, must ever be subservient to discipline if success is to be attained.

Harborough was certainly a "tough nut". On duty he was autocratic. His idea was: "I'm in charge; carry out my orders and I'll do my level best in your interests. If anything goes wrong, then I take all the responsibility." Off duty he was affability personified, and was always ready and even eager to listen to suggestions, and should Beverley be in charge of the deck he would never interfere.

Originally it had been the intention to place Villiers in charge of one watch, while Harborough, except for actual navigation duties, acted as general supervisor; but Villiers' mysterious disappearance had altered that plan, and Harborough did not appoint a substitute. He shared a belief with Beverley that Jack Villiers would put in an appearance before the Titania reached Singapore, and so firm was his conviction that he had the missing officer's kit on board instead of placing it ashore when the yacht left Southampton.

"Bit of a change from the good old North Sea," remarked Merridew, gazing at the towering Rock, bathed in the rosy tints of the setting sun. "This time last year we were perambulating bales of wool: three sweaters, a muffler, monkey-jacket, pilot-coat, and two pairs of thick trousers, and none too warm at that. Now, here we are feeling quite warm in flannels."

"And I'm on anchor watch," added Fontayne. "I'm rather looking forward to it, 'cause it's full moon to-night, and the Rock will look splendid in the moonlight. I remember when I was an A.B. in the R.N.V.R. keeping middle watch when we were lying just inside Inchkeith. It was New Year's night, and there was a buzz going round that a Fritz was nosing about just outside the boom. Sleeting, snowing, and blowing like billy-ho. Absolute fact; I had to go below and thaw before I could get my clothes off. Hallo, there's a boat pulling off."

[Illustration: UNMASKED HE WAS NO LONGER AN AMIABLE SWEDE
(missing from book)]

The boat, manned by a couple of "Rock Scorps" ran alongside the gangway, and presently the crew of the Titania were bargaining for quantities of luscious fruit at a price that, although affording a handsome profit to the vendors, was so ridiculously cheap that the purchasers could hardly believe it.

Then another boat ran alongside, and others, until the Titania looked like a swan surrounded by her cygnets. There were bumboatmen, ship's store-dealers, washermen, butchers, purveyors of insipid rain-water—Spaniards, Genoese, Moors, and representatives of every country bordering on the Mediterranean—all clamouring to do business with the newly-arrived vessel.

"Allow no one to come on board," ordered Harborough.

"No exception?" inquired a hearty voice, and to the surprise of everyone on deck Jack Villiers appeared from behind a pile of fruit-cases in the stern-sheets of a whaler.

For once, at least, Harborough went back on his word. He almost went back and down an open hatchway, for, although he was convinced that Villiers would put in an appearance, that worthy's sudden return took the usually cool and collected Sir Hugh by surprise.

"Good heavens, Villiers, dear old thing!" he exclaimed. "How in the name of all that's wonderful——!"

Running up the accommodation-ladder and saluting the quarter-deck as he came over the side, Villiers grasped his chief's extended hand.

"'Fraid I haven't much of a kit," he remarked apologetically; "but this, I think, sir, is your property."

He held out the attaché-case. Harborough gazed at it with mingled surprise and amusement.

"You've a yarn to spin about that," he observed. "Come below. We're about to have dinner. You'll be able to have a word with Beverley before he goes on watch."

"I won't say that I've nothing to tell," remarked Jack, "because I have."

For the next three quarters of an hour he was hard at it, his audience listening in almost unbroken silence. Following his plunge from the deck of the Zug, he was in the water forty minutes before he was picked up by a Portuguese "mulutta"—a fishing-boat whose chief characteristic is the large number of fantastically-shaped sails she carries. It was doubtless the presence of the fishing-boat that deterred the Zug's crew from putting about and opening fire upon the swimmer; but Villiers had not observed the presence of his rescuers until the tramp was hull down.

The fishermen treated him very kindly, and eventually landed him at Figuera, a Portuguese harbour about one hundred miles north of Lisbon. A hospitable merchant rendered him every possible assistance and provided him with money sufficient to enable him to reach Algeciras, which he did after a long and circuitous railway journey which, in Villiers' opinion, embraced the greater part of Portugal and Spain. At Algeciras he was fortunate in catching the last ferry-boat for that day across to the Rock, and during the six-mile passage across the Bay of Gibraltar he saw, to his unbounded delight, the Titania putting in and dropping anchor off the Old Mole.

"I'm afraid," observed Harborough, when Villiers had finished his narrative, "that you expended a lot of unnecessary zeal over that attaché-case."

"Oh!" exclaimed Jack doubtfully. "Why?"

"Because it was a fake," explained Harborough. "I did not mention it at the time, because it was my secret. I intended doing so immediately we left England. These plans and charts are false. I knew that someone was after the real charts, and I took precautions accordingly. I expected they would be stolen, and they were. In order to make sure that they were stolen and not accidentally lost, you remember, I offered a substantial reward. But they were not returned—hence it was reasonable to assume that they were deliberately stolen by our rivals. You have proved that such was the case. I only hope your late host, Herr Strauss, acts upon them."

"I believe the fellow is identical with Kristian Borgen," said Villiers. "In fact, I chucked it in his teeth."

"And he denied it?"

"He did."

"Then he told the truth," declared Harborough. "He is acting under the fellow Borgen's orders, but Borgen was in Southampton when we left; consequently he couldn't have been on the Zug when she sailed. And we've enough evidence now to get the Zug detained and her crew put under arrest at the first port she touches."

"Don't do that," said Villiers. "It would spoil a lot of sport. Just fancy those fellows thinking they're doing us, and all the while acting on faked information. Their punishment will be found in their disappointment. Personally, I'd like to have five minutes with the gentleman who sand-bagged me, but I'm quite content to let the rival crush have a run for its money."

"There's something in that," agreed Harborough, who, in common with the rest of the members of the expedition, had a strong partiality for the element of chance and a liking for sport. "They're interlopers, it's true, but rivalry adds a zest to life. But you must be tired with your long journey, Villiers."

"I am," replied Jack, stifling a yawn. "I'll turn in. I suppose there'll be time for me to nip ashore to-morrow and get a new kit."

"Plenty of time to go ashore," replied Harborough, "but I don't think you'll need a fresh rig-out. Your kit's stowed away in the locker under your bunk."

CHAPTER XII

Pete and the Mutiny

The Titania remained at Gib. for thirty-six hours, refilling her fuel-tanks, provisioning, and making good slight damage done during the gale.

At six in the morning, having received her clearance papers, the yacht weighed, and was soon bowling along with the strong current that sets perpetually eastward into the almost tideless Mediterranean.

Villiers, now officer in charge of the starboard watch, was pacing the deck with Harborough. For the present there was little to do. The Titania lay close hauled on the port tack; she had plenty of sea-room, and there were no hidden shoals to worry about. Fontayne was taking his trick at the wheel, and the rest of the duty watch, having scrubbed decks and "flemished down", were standing easy.

"She shows a clean pair of heels," remarked Villiers, watching the vessel's wake. "I should imagine we're doing a good eight knots."

"Yes," agreed Harborough. "But we won't stand here gazing aft. It's a little antipathy of mine. Why, I don't know. You read in books of people standing aft and watching the phosphorescent swirl of the propellers and all that sort of thing. Sentimental! I prefer to look for'ard and see what's ahead. There's precious little fun in taking life retrospectively. It's anticipation—call it hope if you like—that is the lodestone of life!"

"I wonder if you'll be of the same mind when you near the end of your journey," remarked Villiers.

"That I can't say," replied Harborough. "But, candidly speaking, would you care to go through the last five years again?"

"I had some good times," said Jack reflectively. "Perhaps I was lucky."

"Supposing you'd been a Tommy in the trenches?" prompted Harborough.

"Ah, that's a proposition," rejoined Villiers gravely. "I don't think I'd care for the idea. In fact, I feel certain I wouldn't. And I know dozens of fellows who've been and come back, and they are all of the same opinion—that it was a physical and mental hell. But if they had to start all over again, they'd do it."

"As a matter of patriotic duty," added Harborough. "We're a weird nation—slow to adapt ourselves to changing conditions, blunderers in war and blunderers in peace, and yet, somehow, we come out on top in the end. The Old Country's in a pretty rotten state just now, I admit, but in another twelvemonth or so things will begin to shape themselves. Eh! what's that?"

O'Loghlin, lightly clad, perspiring freely and reeking with oil, had come up from the motor-room and stood before his chief.

"We've a stowaway, sir," he reported.

Harborough knitted his heavy brows.

"Bring him along," he ordered.

The stowaway came quietly. He followed O'Loghlin like a lamb—a tall, powerfully-built negro, on whose ebony features was a smile of beatific contentment, in conjunction with a wide-open mouth that displayed a double row of glistening ivories extending almost from ear to ear.

Harborough looked straight at him and said nothing. O'Loghlin, standing behind the black, afterwards maintained that the skipper was looking through the nigger. In less than fifteen seconds the smile had vanished and the stowaway was on the verge of tears.

"What are you doing here?" demanded the skipper of the Titania.

"I jus' come aboard, sah."

"For what reason?"

"Me tink dis packet is bound for 'Merica. I jus' want to go dere," and again a broad smile stole over the nigger's face. "Me British born," he continued proudly. "From Hole Town, Barbadoes, which am in British West Indies; but I specks you know dat bit, sah."

"And so you thrust your unwelcome carcass on board this yacht," rejoined Harborough. "Do you know where we are bound for?"

The nigger shook his head.

"Don't much, sah," he replied. "Me work berry hard to please you."

"You'll jolly well have to," declared Harborough grimly. "There's no room for idlers on this craft. Can you cook?"

"Yes, sah, me berry good cook," assented the black, and immediately he broke into a loud roar of laughter until he had to hold his sides as the tears streamed down his face.

The laugh was distinctly infectious. There was something so boisterously gusty in the merriment that every one of the Titania's crew on deck began smiling in varying degrees of intensity.

"What about your cooking?" inquired Harborough, whose face was puckered in a multitude of crinkles.

"Me cook aboard de Lucy M. Partington, three-masted schooner from N'Orleans to Naples," explained the black. "Me cook berry well all de time. One day de fellah played a prank, an' put Epsom-salts in the sugar canister. I made Spotted Dick for de Ole Man—pardon, sah, de Captain, I mean—an' dere you are."

Another tornado of laughter followed.

"And what happened then?" prompted Harborough.

"Ole Man kick me out at Gib.," replied the nigger soberly. "Big gum-boots, too," he added, with painful reminiscence.

"Well, carry on in the galley," ordered the skipper of the Titania. "None of your Epsom-salt touches here, remember, or you'll find my boot heavier than the Lucy M. Partington's Old Man's. What's your name?"

"Pete, sah; Pete Johnson."

Harborough waved dismissal. Pete, pulling his woolly forelock, pattered away towards the fore-hatch.

"They didn't have a nigger on board the Zug, I suppose?" inquired Harborough.

"No," replied Villiers. "This fellow seems quite above board."

"He may be a blessing in disguise," commented the baronet. "I don't envy the fellows who volunteered for the galley when we get down the Red Sea, and they'll be jolly glad to get out of it."

An hour later Villiers went below and inspected the galley.

Pete had quickly made himself at home. Arrayed in white-canvas jumper and trousers he presented a decidedly better appearance than he had done in the ragged dungarees. He had not been lacking in energy, for the pots and pans were burnished brighter than they had been since they left the ship-chandler's establishment in far-off Southampton.

He greeted Jack with one of his expansive grins.

"Quite shipshape now, Massa Villers," he exclaimed.

"You're making quite a fine show, Sambo," replied Villiers.

The black's smile vanished and he pouted his lip.

"I would hab you know, Massa Villers," he exclaimed, with studied dignity, "dat my name is Pete, not Sambo. Sambo Yankee niggah; me British born."

"Right-o, Pete, I'll remember," replied Villiers; and the black resumed his customary smile.

"I wonder how he got hold of my name," thought Jack.

It was O'Loghlin who solved that little mystery. O'Loghlin had discovered the stowaway hidden behind the main fuel-tank that was fitted athwartships just abaft the main hold. Pete would not have been surprised had the engineer officer dragged him out by his woolly hair and booted him in addition. That was the sort of thing he was used to aboard the Lucy M. Partington, but nothing of the kind happened, and Pete felt grateful. He described in detail how he contrived to get on board without being "spotted" by any of the watch on deck. After he had been rated ship's cook the nigger asked O'Loghlin to tell him the names of every man on board, and, with a retentive memory that many West Indian negroes possess, Pete "had them all off pat".

Throughout the greater part of the day the wind held, but towards the end of the first dog watch it fell a flat calm with considerable haze. Away to the south'ard the African coast, although only five miles distant, was lost to view. Night was approaching, so in order to keep clear of the unlighted coast the Titania's course was altered a full point, and the motors were started to give her steerage-way.

"We'll have the canvas stowed," decided Harborough; "one never knows what's behind the mist. The glass is a bit jumpy, I notice."

Accordingly the sails were lowered and stowed, and throughout the night the Titania held on under power, riding over the long, sullen ground-swell that was a sign of a gale raging not so many miles off. The sea was highly phosphorescent, and, although from crest to crest the rollers measured a full hundred yards, not a catspaw ruffled the undulating surface.

Morning came and with it no change in the weather. A couple of miles on the port bow was a large three-masted schooner with her canvas slatting violently as she wallowed in the long swell. From her mizen truck was displayed a two-flag signal.

"Stand by with the code-book," cautioned Beverley, who was in charge of the deck.

He levelled his binoculars at the vessel. There was no need for the code-book. Every seaman knows the significance of the letters YF—Mutiny.

"On deck both watches," shouted Beverley. "Close up with the answering pennant."

The order was obeyed in double-quick time, the watch below turning out in a state of attire that could not by any stretch of the imagination be termed uniform. Harborough, stopping only to don oilskin coat and sea-boots over his pyjamas, came on deck.

"Serve out the arms, Mr. Beverley," he said, "and hoist a signal saying we are sending a boat. Mr. Villiers, will you take half a dozen armed men and proceed to yonder vessel?"

Almost as soon as the signal flags GTM—"I am sending a boat"—were toggled and hoisted, the Titania's whaler was swung outboard ready for lowering, and under power the yacht rapidly bore down upon the mutinous schooner.

"Golly!" exclaimed Pete, who, in the midst of preparing breakfast, had answered to the hail for all hands on deck. "Dat's the ole Lucy M. Partington."

Before the Titania had entirely lost way the whaler's rounded bilges hit the water with a resounding smack. The lower blocks of the falls were disengaged, and the bowman adroitly fended off.

"Give way, lads!" ordered Villiers.

Fifty steady strokes sufficed to lay the boat alongside the schooner's port quarter, from which a rope-ladder had been dropped by her now considerably-relieved skipper.

Leaving one hand in the whaler, Villiers and the rest of the boat's crew swarmed up the side and gained the Lucy M. Partington's poop. The mutiny was over. The rebellious hands had been overawed by the sight of the approaching armed boat's crew.

The Old Man, a typical New Englander, with a goatee beard and huge leather sea-boots (Villiers found himself wondering how the skipper could wear heavy foot-gear on a hot day like that), left his strategical position, to wit, a round house abaft the mizen, and was bellowing incoherencies at a knot of sullen seamen clustered under the break of the raised fo'c'sle. With him were the two mates and three apprentices, who looked now as if they were enjoying the scene, and a couple of grizzled, bald-headed seamen.

"What's all this fuss about, skipper?" inquired Villiers genially.

"Tarnation blue snakes take the pizonous reptiles," bellowed the Old Man. "That's the durned skunk I want to get at; that skulking Finn."

He pointed to a gigantic man standing behind, but towering head and shoulders above the cosmopolitan crowd of malcontents.

"We've had just about enuff of your tarnation tricks, Cap'n Abe," shouted one of the mutineers. "Nary a square meal since you hiked our cook over the side."

"Guess I didn't boot the nigger jus' for nuthin'," explained Captain Abe to his rescuers. "The nigger tried to pizen me."

"There ain't as good a cook on board, an' there won't be," vociferated the mutineer. "Pete could cook, and there ain't no sayin' to the contrary, I guess."

So that was the trouble. In putting Pete ashore at Gib. the skipper of the Lucy M. Partington had laid up a rod in pickle for himself. No doubt the Old Man honestly thought that the nigger had deliberately put Epsom-salt into his pudding; but he had made a mistake in not taking the trouble to investigate Pete's story. And since the cook was a cook, the crew soon found out to their cost what it means to have badly-prepared meals.

Matters came quickly to a head. One of the men approached the skipper, holding in his hands a saucepan of watery potatoes in which floated hard balls that were supposed to be dumplings, and asked him whether he considered this sort of food good enough for human beings.

Captain Abe replied by booting the saucepan from the fellow's hands and throwing most of its contents into the grumbler's face. That started what soon developed into a serious affray, and how far matters would have gone remained questionable. The appearance of the Titania, which the mutineers mistook for a Government patrol-boat (of which some were yet employed on mine-sweeping work in the Mediterranean), rather took the wind out of their sails.

Villiers called the Yankee skipper aside.

"Look here," he said, "I don't quite know what you want me to do."

"Put the varmints into irons, I guess," suggested Captain Abe.

"Then who'll work the ship?" asked Jack. "There is bad weather coming, judging by the glass and the look of things. Short-handed, you'll be in a jolly tight corner. Those fellows have a grievance, although they were in the wrong to kick up a shindy. I can't lend you any hands, so what are you going to do?"

"Dashed if I know," admitted Captain Abe, in perplexity. "Say, what would you?"

"You've been at sea a jolly sight longer than I have, I should say," continued Villiers. "So it seems like teaching my grandmother to tell you how to handle men. Meet them half-way. If you've a grievance and they have one, there's always the Consular Courts to appeal to. That's better than jumping round the deck with sheath-knives and revolvers."

"Guess you're about right," considered Captain Abe. "Just you sound 'em for me, young man. For my part, I'm willin'."

Villiers went for'ard. In five minutes he had "talked over" the crew. They, too, were willing to carry on as before, on the understanding that a competent cook was shipped at the next port they touched.

Jack, proud of his moral victory, shook hands with the Yankee skipper and the two mates, and returned to the Titania.

"It's all right, now, sir," he reported. "They're carrying on."

At that moment the Titania, forging slowly ahead, was passing under the stern and within half a cable's length of the becalmed Lucy M. Partington.

The latter's skipper caught sight of Pete sitting contentedly on the cat-head. His eyes opened in utter amazement.

"Pete!" he hailed. "Come you back!"

The nigger shook his woolly head.

"You kick me out, Cap'n Abe!" he reminded him.

"Fifty dollars, Pete, if you swim for it," almost implored the Yankee, finding as he thought an easy solution to the present difficulty.

Pete's head shook until his teeth almost rattled in his capacious jaws.

"Dere's no leather sea-boots with nails in 'em on dis vessel," he replied. "Only indy-rubber. 'Specks I know where dis nigger am comf'ble."

Then, using an expression that he had picked up from his new acquaintances on the Titania, he added: "Cheerio, you deah, priceless ole thing!"

CHAPTER XIII

Advice and Bluff

"No, no, boy. Not 'la silence' but 'le silence'."

"But, sir," protested the boy, "it's according to rule; it ends in a silent 'e'."

"An exception, Beverley," explained Mr. Jaques. "An exception. One of the peculiarities of the French language. But this might help you to remember. Silence is one of the things that a woman cannot keep, therefore the French place that word in the masculine gender——"

"I say, sir," interrupted Dick Beverley. "Look at that moth. Rather late for this time of year, isn't it?"

"Never mind the moth," said his house-master. "You'll see plenty of varieties of moths during the next few months," he sighed, envious of the high-spirited youth. "Now, say in French: 'Will you kindly tell me the way to the police-station'. Good; 'poste' has two different meanings: 'post-office' and 'police-station', according to gender. Now say the same sentence in Italian. H'm, yes, passable. You have that written slip of directions the Head gave you? And your Italian passport: you're keeping that in a different pocket to your notes? And don't address strangers on Continental railways. If in doubt ask someone in uniform. All railway officials are in uniform on the other side of the Channel, you know."

Dick Beverley nodded. Already the well-meaning Mr. Jaques had dinned the various and somewhat bewildering instructions and injunctions into his excited head at least half a dozen times between Charing Cross and Folkestone. But the boy's brain had closed its doors, temporarily at least, to the advice of his house-master. On the eve of a vast adventure it is often so, although before long a confidant would be welcome.

"Monsieur Deschamps will meet you at the Gare du Nord," continued Mr. Jaques. "The journey across Paris is the most difficult part of the business, but that difficulty will, I trust, be eliminated. I believe there is a wagon lit straight through from Paris to Brindisi."

Dick again nodded, but his attention was centred on the animated harbour as viewed from the lounge of the hotel.

"From Brindisi," resumed the master, "you proceed to Taranto. If the Titania should not be there, what do you do?"

"Stop at the Hotel d'Annunzio, Strada Miratore," replied Dick promptly. He knew that bit.

"That is so," agreed the pedantic Mr. Jaques; "and above all, be discreet. Remember what I told you about 'silence'. I was given to understand, during a brief interview with your brother, that absolute discretion is necessary—not only for your own welfare but for the people you are about to join. Remember also to keep your French paper money in a different compartment of your pocket-book from your Italian notes, and examine your change carefully. There is a lot of bad money about in those countries, I believe."

"Like a lot of bacon we get in England, sir," added the irrepressible youth.

Mr. Jaques nodded. He could well afford to be sympathetic on that subject.

"You have your keys, I hope," he asked, returning to the lengthy exhortation to a juvenile traveller. "The douaniers—custom-house people—will want to examine your luggage, you know."

Dick produced the keys; a large jack-knife, a catapult, and a piece of whip-cord were disclosed during the operation.

"You had better let me have that catapult," observed the house-master. "I cannot conceive why you should want to take a thing like that away with you, especially as the possession of a catapult is an offence against the rules of the school."

Beverley junior surrendered the catapult cheerfully. After all it was one of three that he carried about his person.

Ten minutes later Mr. Jaques and Dick parted company on board the cross-Channel steamer, the former to return with a feeling that he had carried out a duty conscientiously, the latter realizing at last that he was actually on the threshold of a big adventure.

Dick remained on deck. Even the strong desire to go below, to see if he could prevail upon the engineer to allow him to enter the engine-room, was not enough to tear him from the sight of the receding shores of Kent and the constant stream of shipping passing to and fro on one of the main arteries of the world's maritime trade.

He was a high-spirited youth, no better and no worse than the average British schoolboy. He had received his colours at "footer", was a moderate bat, could swim and box, and could ride almost any make of motor-cycle and understand its mechanism as well. True, he hadn't a motor-bike of his own, for the simple reason that funds wouldn't run to it, but his unfailing good nature and ability to undertake repairing jobs were sufficient to give him the run of the majority of motor-cycles belonging to his fellow-boarders.

Normally he was open and inclined to be communicative, but, with Mr. Jaques' warning somewhere in the back of his brain, it was not surprising that he showed a tendency to "choke off" an attempt at conversation on the part of a fellow-passenger on the Folkestone-Boulogne boat.

"Your name's Beverley, isn't it?" inquired the stranger. Dick had noticed him in the foyer of the hotel.

"Yes," he replied shortly. "He can see that by reading the labels on my luggage," he added mentally.

"I know your father," continued the stranger. "My name's Wilson."

"Really," rejoined Dick. "You didn't speak to him in the hotel, did you?"

"No," was the answer, after a moment's hesitation. "I saw you were both talking very earnestly, and naturally one doesn't like to butt in on the eve of parting."

Dick considered. Either the "old buffer" had made a genuine mistake or else he was trying to "pump him". Possibly the latter.

"I'm going as far as Brindisi to meet my daughter from Egypt," continued Mr. Wilson. "You are going farther, I see?"

"Yes, to Taranto," replied Dick. "Cruising in the Mediterranean."

"Then you are one of the Titania's party."

"Am I?" rejoined the lad.

The stranger smiled.

"Of course you are," he said. "And you are going farther than the Mediterranean, I believe."

"We were," declared Dick mendaciously, for he considered himself quite justified in bluffing the fellow. "We were, but the long cruise has been abandoned. Don't know why."

"You'll be quite a traveller. Have you journeyed on the Continent before?"

Dick shook his head.

"No? Then I'll have to give an eye to you," continued Mr. Wilson. "Rather a long journey without having anyone to talk to."

"Don't think I'd take it on if I were you, Mr. Wilson," said Dick in a well-simulated, confidential tone. "You see, I'm let out before I ought to be. I only came out of the sanny yesterday."

"The sanny?" queried Mr. Wilson, in perplexity.

"Yes, that is the sanatorium, you know," explained Dick, warming to his part. "Scarlet fever; 'fraid I haven't quite finished peeling yet."

"Er—er—I don't quite understand," murmured the stranger uneasily, moving back a pace.

"Of course with proper precautions it may be all right," continued the fever-stricken youth cheerfully. "I've been cautioned to keep to the lee side of the boat so that the germs—beastly things germs—don't get blown on the people. In the train I've got to keep the window open at night, if other passengers don't object, and sniff carbolic powder. But I'll be free from infection by the time we get to Brindisi, I expect."

Chuckling to himself, Dick watched Mr. Wilson beat a hurried retreat.

"If I'd taken old Jaques' advice about keeping silence I'd have had to have been awfully rude," he soliloquized. "As it is, I've put the wind up him. Wonder who he is? And he said he knows my father, too. That's rich!"

He did not see Mr. Wilson again, save for a glimpse of his back at the Gare du Nord, during the journey to the south of Italy. "Mr. Wilson", or to give him his real name, Herr Kaspar von Giespert, thought fit to alter his proposed route, for instead of proceeding via Brindisi he booked to Marseilles, hoping to catch a Messageries boat to Singapore.

It was a pure coincidence that von Giespert and Dick were fellow-passengers on the Folkestone-Boulogne boat, but Mr. Jaques' over-cautious exhortation had given the Hun a clue. Happening to hear the word Titania, von Giespert pricked up his ears. He decided to sound the open-faced British boy; he might have succeeded but for an initial false move in assuming that Jaques was Dick's parent.

Von Giespert was cooling his heels at the southern French seaport days after Dick Beverley joined the yacht Titania at Taranto.

CHAPTER XIV

Sunk in Collision

It was a dark, windless night. The Titania, under power, was gliding through the tranquil waters of the Red Sea. The port watch had just been relieved, and Bobby Beverley, having "handed over" to Jack Villiers, lingered on the deck to have a yarn with his particular chum.

Already the port of Hodeida was left on the port quarter. Ahead lay the reefs surrounding the dangerous Hanish Islands. Two miles astern could be discerned the red, green, and white lights of a vessel that was obviously overhauling the Titania hand over fist.

"Mail boat—P. & O. most likely," observed Beverley. "We needn't worry about her—she's the overtaking vessel. Shan't be sorry to get clear of the Red Sea. Too many Arab dhows sculling around without lights to my fancy."

"Enough to give a Board of Trade examiner a puzzler for the 'Rule of the Road' stunt," remarked Villiers. "Do you remember that white-bearded old buffer? I suppose it was the same fellow who examined you. Tried to catch me out with the 'single red light on my starboard bow', but I tumbled to it just in time. Narrow squeak, though."

"I remember him," replied Beverley. "He gave me a regular galaxy of light, and asked what I would do. 'Put my helm hard down and clear out', I told him. 'The best course, too', he agreed."

"After knocking about at sea without lights for three years," said Beverley, "it does seem a bit awkward to find yourself up against 'em. Something like that prisoner in the Bastille who asked to be shut up again after he was released. Question of use, I suppose."

"Light on the port bow, sir," sung out Merridew.

At that distance only a red and a white light were visible, but by the aid of his binoculars Villiers saw the gleam of the starboard light.

"Port helm," he ordered.

The Titania and the approaching vessel cleared each other easily, but Villiers had little time to pay further attention to her. Ahead were a number of dhows, strung out in an irregular line, practically motionless in the flat calm.

"Good heavens, what's that!" ejaculated Bobby. "There's an almighty smash."

How it occurred was a mystery, but the fact remained that the overtaking liner and the vessel that had just passed the Titania were in collision. It was one of those instances that have taken place and will take place in the future—unaccountable yet none the less disastrous. In clear weather and in a perfectly calm sea two steamers crashed into each other.

Above the noise of grinding steel and the hiss of escaping steam came a clamorous panic-stricken yell from hundreds of throats.

"Not British this time," commented Jack, as he ordered the helm to be put hard over and the boats swung out ready for lowering.

"Get the searchlights running, Bobby," he added, "and inform the Old Man."

But the Old Man was at that moment bounding up the companion-ladder, a conspicuous figure in his white drill uniform.

Directly the two brilliant beams of the searchlights were brought into action Harborough took in the situation at a glance.

One of the colliding vessels was a liner. She was badly damaged for'ard and was deep down by the bows. The other, a chartered Belgian steamer conveying Mussulman pilgrims to Jiddah, the port of the Holy City of Mecca, had already sunk, having been cut completely in two by the impact.

"Have those boats swung inboard again, Mr. Villiers," he ordered. "We'll lay right alongside that fellow. There'll be time before she goes."

Villiers understood. The lessons learnt in the North Sea, where it was an everyday task to place an M.L. alongside a huge lumbering tramp, were not forgotten. To avoid delay in rescuing human lives Harborough had ordered the Titania to be manoeuvred alongside the foundering liner.

Even under normal conditions it would have been no easy task, but the difficulties were increased tenfold, for while the colliding vessels remained locked together, nearly a hundred frantic Mussulmans had succeeded in clambering over the liner's shattered bows to find but a temporary refuge on her decks. These, in addition to a very cosmopolitan assortment of passengers, were already out of hand, despite the firm efforts of the liner's officers and crew to maintain discipline. There was a wild stampede for the boats—Arabs and Europeans mingled in a suicidal and homicidal rush, with the result that by the time the Titania was within hailing distance one boat only had been successfully lowered. The rest had either capsized or were hanging vertically from the davits. Those of the passengers who yet remained on board were either made of sterner stuff or else they had been tamed by the sight of the fate that had befallen the frenzied mob. As for the officers and crew of the foundering vessel, they were doing their best to try and preserve order, but the sudden addition of a swarm of pilgrims rendered their task almost superhuman.

Taking the helm, Harborough adroitly manoeuvred the Titania until she lost way within ten yards of the sinking vessel. Instantly there was another rush on the part of the utterly demoralized Mussulmans.

"Women and children first!" roared Harborough. "Does anyone on board speak Swahili or Arabic? If so, tell those blacks to keep back. I'll shoot the first man who jumps without permission."

Apparently some of the pilgrims understood English, or else they guessed the purport of Harborough's words. Calm again succeeded the paroxysm of cowardice.

Carefully avoiding the outswung davits of the huge vessel, Harborough brought the Titania alongside so neatly and carefully that there was hardly any need to employ fenders to absorb the shock. Even though the ship was foundering she towered high above the yacht, thereby rendering the task of transhipping the survivors a somewhat difficult one. Had there been any sea running the operation would have been hazardous, but lifting upon the very gentle swell the vessels, large and small, lay almost motionless, although momentarily the former was settling deeper and deeper by the head.

Half a dozen women and children were the first to be received on board the yacht. Then came thirty or forty passengers, mostly French, but with a sprinkling of Italians and Dutchmen. Then the survivors of the pilgrim-ship were allowed on board, where, thinking themselves safe, they squatted on deck and took no further interest in the proceedings, or, if they did, they concealed it under a cloak of Oriental impassivity. Then followed the crew, most of whom had found time to collect their personal belongings, for nearly every man held a bundle made of a coloured handkerchief filled to its utmost capacity. Last of all came the officers, the dark-featured, white-haired Breton captain bringing up the rear.

He seemed reluctant to leave, and not until Harborough shouted a warning did the little Frenchman leap. It was not a moment too soon, for by this time the liner's bows were awash and water was entering the boiler-rooms.

The Titania, her decks resembling a Bank Holiday Margate steamer, and submerged two feet above her water-line, backed slowly away, keeping her searchlight still running in the hope that they might see other survivors from the sunken pilgrim-ship.

"We're lucky," remarked Harborough to Villiers. "Decidedly lucky, otherwise I wouldn't give much for our chances if there had been a sea running. By Jove! What a pack. Makes one think of the good old days when Fritz started running amok with his U-boats."

"What are we doing with this lot, sir?" asked Jack.

"Run 'em into Massowah," replied the skipper of the Titania. "Seems to be the easier way out of the difficulty. Massowah's a bit out of our course, but it's an Italian port. They can't detain us to give evidence in a Court of Inquiry. At Aden we might be held up. Hallo! There she goes."

The French liner Cité d'Arras was on the point of disappearing. With the Titania's searchlights flashed upon the scene, her stricken hull looked as though it were fashioned of silver. Her stern was high out of the water, and, after the Titania had pushed off, she had developed a terrific list to starboard.

A hush fell upon the crowd on the Titania's deck. All eyes were directed upon the sinking vessel, even the Mussulmans abandoning their hitherto impassive attitude to gaze upon the scene.

Steam was still issuing in dense clouds from her boiler-rooms; jets of water expelled by compressed air leapt high above her listing masts as the eddying, foaming water encroached upon her decks.

Then, with a movement not unlike the convulsive spring of a mortally wounded animal, the stricken craft lifted until her twin-propellers were clear of the water. For perhaps ten seconds she remained thus; then, to the accompaniment of a loud roar as her displaced boilers exploded, she disappeared from sight.

Harborough rang for full speed ahead.

CHAPTER XV

What did Dick Do?

Literally forcing his way along the crowded deck, Bobby Beverley went below to make up arrears of sleep. At the foot of the companion-ladder he encountered Claverhouse, on whom the task of providing accommodation 'tween decks for the women and children rescued from the Cité d'Arras had fallen.

"Do you know your young brother's been in the ditch?" inquired Alec.

"By Jove!" exclaimed Bobby. "Is that a fact? Where is he?"

"Fact," confirmed Claverhouse. "At the present time he's shedding his wet gear in your cabin."

Dick Beverley looked a little confused when his brother appeared. As a matter of fact he had changed his saturated garments, and was in the act of attempting to remove all traces of the pools of water from the floor when the cabin door was thrown open and Bobby entered.

"What silly game have you been up to?" inquired Beverley Major sternly.

"Only got a bit wet," replied Beverley Minor. "Nothing much; I'll soon get your cabin straight, Bob."

"How did it happen?" demanded Bobby.

"Sort of slipped in," declared Dick.

"Pushed in?"

"Well, there was a bit of a crush," observed Dick diplomatically.

"You young ass!" ejaculated his brother. "I suppose you know the water's teeming with sharks?"

Dick admitted that he was aware of the unpleasant fact. He had seen them following the yacht soon after she left Suez.

"How did you get on board again?" asked Bobby.

"Trevear hauled me up with a rope," replied Dick simply. "I wasn't in for more than fifteen seconds."

"Time enough for you to have been bitten in two," rejoined Bobby. "All right, carry on and wipe up the mess. I want to turn in."

He went out, leaving Dick to complete his self-appointed task, to seek Trevear and gain further particulars, since his brother was obviously "lying low".

He found the R.A.F. pilot talking French as spoken on the Somme in 1918 to a pair of children whose home was at Oléron in the Department of the Basses-Pyrénées. The result was not altogether a success, although by a wealth of dumb show Trevear contrived to keep the children amused.

"They've shoved me in charge of the crèche, old bird," he observed. "Know it's no use offering you a cigarette; try some of this."

He extended a well-used and bulky tobacco-pouch.

"What's on your chest, old man?" he continued.

"Something my young brother's been doing," rejoined Beverley.

"Eh, what's that?" asked Trevear, raising his eyebrows and simulating an air of complete ignorance.

"I want you to tell me exactly how he got into the ditch," declared Bobby.

"You know that much, then?" rejoined Trevear. "Non, non. Taisez-vous; c'est defendu de puller mon hair (that was an aside addressed to his charges, who, finding themselves ignored, reasserted their presence by tugging vigorously at the ex-airman's closely-cropped hair). All right, then; s'pose I'm no longer bound to secrecy. While we were lying alongside the Frenchman, young Dick spotted someone in the water—one of the Arab crowd. Before I knew what he was up to—I thought he was going to sling the fellow a coil of rope—he took a turn round his waist with the end of a line and jumped overboard. Pete and I hiked him back in double quick time, 'cause the Arab fellow was trying to drag him under. Yes, we got the pair of 'em just as a brute of a shark turned on his back and showed his ugly jaws. Gave me a bit of a turn, and I fancy young Dick had the wind up after it was all over. That youngster's got some pluck, old son."

Trevear would doubtless have held to his compact with Dick Beverley, but it was obvious that the secret would out, as Pete had been a witness of the affair. The negro had already told O'Loghlin and Swaine, and they, in turn, had communicated the news of the exploit to others.

Bobby returned to his cabin. Dick, having completed the tidying-up process, had turned in. His brother went to the side of the bunk.

"Dick," he said softly. "You're a silly young ass, but I'm proud of you."

It was broad daylight when Bobby Beverley awoke to find Pete standing by his bunk with a cup of tea. Already the air was insufferably hot, in spite of the fact that the port-hole was wide open and an electric fan running. Without, the sun beat fiercely down, its hot rays glancing obliquely from the mirror-like surface of the water. On deck the tramp of many feet showed that the survivors of the catastrophe were giving signs of activity.

Looking at the clock, Bobby saw that he had but twenty minutes before going on deck to take over his watch. A plunge into a bath of tepid water, shaving and dressing, occupied half the allotted time; then, making a hurried breakfast, the watch-keeping officer went on deck.

The Titania was approaching Massowah, somewhat to the discontent of many of the ex-passengers of the Cité d'Arras, who wanted to be landed at the French colony of Obock farther down the coast and just below the Bab el Mandeb. But Harborough had decided otherwise. The objection to calling at Aden applied equally well to putting into Obock, so willy-nilly the survivors had to accept the hospitality of the Italian colony until they found means of resuming their interrupted journeys.

The moment the anchor was dropped and the yacht lost way the Titania was surrounded by a fleet of small boats. Into them the rescued people were placed and taken ashore, not before an impromptu meeting had been held on deck and a vote of thanks delivered in broken English by a tall, corpulent Frenchman who was about to take up a Consular appointment in China.

"Do you know what, in my opinion, is the height of embarrassment," asked Harborough, addressing his crew in general after the departure of the cosmopolitan crowd. "No? I'll tell you; being kissed on both cheeks by a demonstrative bearded Frenchman, with the temperature 125 degrees in the shade."

"Jolly funny thing," remarked Dick to his brother. "I met one of the liner's passengers on the Boulogne boat—a Mr. Wilson."

"Really?" remarked Bobby, to whom the announcement conveyed little interest. In his own experience the world was small, and he was used to knocking up against acquaintances, chance or otherwise, at various odd times. "Speak to him?"

"No," replied the lad. "For one thing, I didn't notice him until he had left the Titania and was sitting in the boat. For another, I didn't want to."

"Why not?" asked Bobby. When Dick took a dislike to anyone there was usually a sound reason.

The schoolboy told how "Mr. Wilson" had tried to pump him.

"By Jove!" exclaimed Jack Villiers, who was with Bobby at this time. "Pity you hadn't let us know half an hour ago. That's old Borgen for a million. He's on his way to join the Zug."

"And what would you have done?" inquired Dick, forming a mental picture of burly Jack Villiers and "Mr. Wilson" fighting à l'outrance on the deck of the good ship Titania.

"Done?" echoed Villiers. "I owe him one for sand-bagging me—or getting his minions to do so, which comes to practically the same thing. I'd have kept him under the influence of morphia for the next twenty-four hours and taken him to sea with us. Then we'd see how the rival crush got on without a figurehead. We'll have to inform the skipper."

Harborough received the news with his inscrutable smile.

"'Tany rate he's boxed up in Massowah for a week or ten days and he's lost all his kit. That's rather put the lid on his activities for a bit. But since he owes us something for saving his life I hope he won't bear us a grudge on that account."

Three hours later, having shipped an additional two hundred gallons of oil and replenished the water-tanks, the Titania weighed and resumed her voyage.

It was a long, tedious stretch across the Arabian Sea, for more than 2500 miles lay between the yacht and the port of Colombo. For the most part there was little wind. When there was any it was generally too much ahead to give the vessel a useful slant, for it was the time of the north-east monsoon. Consequently, the heavy oil-engines were kept running almost continuously.

The Titania passed to the south'ard of the Island of Socotra, which was the last land sighted for a space of twelve days.

"India's coral strand" was a wash-out as far as Dick was concerned, for the Titania passed a good hundred miles to the south'ard of Cape Comorin, but at sunrise on the following morning the lad had a distant view of Adam's Peak, its prominent outlines silhouetted against the rapidly-growing light.

Two days in Colombo Harbour gave the crew a much-needed rest before tackling the almost as long voyage across to Singapore.

Thence, threading her way cautiously between the islands of the Java and Banda Seas, and encountering no adventure in the shape of Malay pirates (somewhat to Dick's disappointment), the Titania approached the outward limit of her long voyage.

Towards the latter end of the run Harborough rarely left the deck. He slept in the chart-house, going below for his meals and returning with the utmost haste. His usual coolness was noticeably absent. He was restless and uncommunicative, often pacing the deck for hours with hardly a word to anyone.

At length, shortly after daybreak, he touched Villiers on the shoulder and pointed to a rugged mountain-top just showing above the horizon.

"That's Ni Telang," he announced. "If I've worked our cards properly we ought to find the Zug there searching for treasure that does not exist."

CHAPTER XVI

The Wrong Island

"Putting in there, sir?" asked Beverley, finding his chief inclined to become communicative.

"I was debating," replied Harborough. "I want to, and yet I don't want to. Fact is, I can't make up my mind."

Villiers, Beverley, and Claverhouse, who with the skipper formed the party on deck, gazed steadfastly upon the distant peaks of Ni Telang. Each man wanted to study the expressions on his companions' faces, but somehow every one hesitated to do so. The admission of indecision coming from the hitherto somewhat despotic skipper of the Titania rather took the wind out of their sails.

"What's your opinion on the matter, Villiers?" inquired Harborough abruptly.

"You wish to satisfy yourself that our rivals are slogging away on the wrong spot?"

"Exactly," replied the baronet. "I suppose it's rather childish, but somehow I want to enjoy the spectacle of seeing the Zug's crew figuratively tumble into the pit they suppose they've dug for others. On the other hand, we are anxious to get to work, and on that account perhaps it would be as well to slip past Ni Telang unobserved and carry on to Nua Leha. It will take us some time, I fancy, to locate the wreck."

"I would suggest, sir," remarked Claverhouse, "that we make straight for Nua Leha and get to work. Trevear and I could have a joy-ride over to Ni Telang and see what sort of game the Huns are up to."

"They'd spot the sea-plane," objected Bobby Beverley. "That wouldn't be advisable in the initial stages of the salvage operations."

"Then what is your scheme, Beverley?" asked Harborough, reaching down for a large-scale chart of the islands that lay in a locker under the chart-house table.

"We could make a trip in one of our boats," replied Beverley. "You couldn't, Villiers, old son; they know you already. We could pitch up a yarn that we are on a fishing expedition and have got blown away from our ship. For that purpose we would be Yanks from the U.S. yacht Narrunga. No doubt friend Strauss would bluff us, but he daren't refuse to let us land for fresh water."

"Quite a sound scheme, Beverley," agreed Harborough. "I think we'll act upon it when we get to Nua Leha.... A couple of points to the south'ard for the present, quartermaster. East-a-half-south will do."

"East-a-half-south, sir," intoned Merridew in professional style.

Keeping to the new course, the Titania passed a good ten miles from the island of Ni Telang. At that distance, although the peaks were plainly visible in the clear atmosphere, the low-lying land and the surrounding barrier of coral reefs were below the horizon. There was a strong temptation to ascertain whether the Zug had already arrived, but, once a decision was arrived at, Harborough put the question firmly from his mind.

Almost before the peaks of Ni Telang dipped below the horizon other land appeared above the skyline, bearing E by N.1/2N.

"We'll broach that case of champagne to-night, all being well," declared Harborough, whose fit of indecision had now passed. He gave another glance at the chart. Almost daily for the last three months he had studied that canvas-backed sea-map of the approaches to Nua Leha; and now the vision of tomorrow had become the reality of to-day.

"Keep her as she is," he continued. "There's plenty of water for a bit. I'm going to turn in. If I'm not awake by one bell in the first dog watch turn me out."

"Very good, sir," replied Villiers.

The Titania was bowling along under canvas at a good seven knots. It was one of those rather exceptional days when the breeze held true and the vessel was able to cut through the clear blue water without any necessity on the part of the crew either to increase or reduce canvas, or to touch a sheet. The weather-shrouds were tautened like harp strings as the yacht lay over at an almost constant angle of thirty degrees from the perpendicular. The spray hissed from her cutwater, and burbled pleasantly past her sides, leaving a clean wake astern.

All hands, including Pete, who was now entirely "in the know", were tremendously excited as the distance between the Titania and her goal decreased.

Yet the island appeared to rise above the blue horizon with provoking slowness. By noon it was just possible to discern three jagged peaks that rose to a height of two thousand five hundred feet above the sea-level, the intervening valleys being a good thousand feet lower. To the northward the ground sloped gradually until it vanished in the haze of mingled sea and sky.

By four o'clock the white line marking the surf upon the outer reef was visible. By the aid of glasses it could be seen that the lower portion of the island was much-wooded, coco-nut palms predominating. The upper land was well covered with grass, but the higher peaks were bare and rugged, indicating their volcanic origin.

Five minutes later Harborough anticipated himself by coming on deck. He had slept the sleep of mental and bodily exhaustion, and although he still looked tired he had lost the grey, haggard expression that had been his constant companion for the last ten days.

"We'll have to approach from the eastern side," he remarked. "There is a passage on this side, but I don't care to risk it. The lead's precious little use in these parts."

He swept the island with his binoculars, and then turned abruptly upon Bobby Beverley.

"Tell Swaine to go aloft," he ordered. "Conning the ship from the cross-trees is the best means of getting across the bar. Mr. Villiers, see that there's a kedge aft ready to let go. You might as well stow canvas. The wind will be heading us round the corner."

While these orders were being executed O'Loghlin went below to start up his beloved motors. He usually spent the greater part of his waking hours below tinkering with the engines. Even in the Red Sea and in the sweltering heat of the Malacca Straits he kept up the performance, and the hitherto-neglected engines were now a picture of polished and easy-running mechanism.

Keeping within a distance of two miles from the reef, the Titania skirted the south-eastern sides of the island. Although a careful watch was maintained there were no signs of human habitation ashore, except a ruined hut that might have been built by the crew of a trading-vessel during their search for bêche-de-mer.

"Good thing there are no natives," remarked Harborough "They'd only tend to complicate matters. We wouldn't dare leave any stores on the beach; they'd vanish. Right-o, Swaine; up aloft with you."

Like a cat Swaine swarmed up aloft, hand over hand, by means of the throat-halyards, for the Titania was not fitted with ratlines. Barely had he settled himself on the cross-trees when he shouted:

"Vessel at anchor in the lagoon, sir!"

"By Jove!" ejaculated Villiers, and without expressing his thoughts he, too, went aloft.

Beyond a low-lying spur of land fringed with an irregular line of coco-nut palms, he could discern the upper parts of the hull and the mast and funnel of a steamer. She had evidently only recently arrived, for smoke was issuing from her funnel.

"It's the Zug, sir," he announced.

The explosion of a 42-centimetre shell could hardly have produced greater surprise. Beating her rival only by a few hours, the Zug had dropped anchor not at Ni Telang but at Nua Leha, and almost over the spot where the wreck of the Fusi Yama was supposed to be lying. By what freak of fortune had von Giespert's minions chosen that spot, when, had they acted upon instructions given in the false chart, they should have been fifty miles to the west'ard?

"That's a nasty one, sir," remarked Villiers, as he gained the deck.

"It is," agreed Harborough briefly. He was rapidly forming a plan of action rendered necessary by the totally unexpected turn of events.

To enter the lagoon and dispute the right of possession with the rival expedition would almost certainly end in bloodshed, and this Harborough was loth to provoke. Nor was he willing to come to terms with them. On the other hand, he was not going to give up his chances and those of his fellow-adventurers. Something had to be done and that quickly, for in another five minutes the Titania would be visible from the Zug's decks.

"Make all plain sail," ordered Harborough. "We'll beat back to Ni Telang. It's possible that we may lure 'em out."

Quickly fore and aft canvas was set, and, close-hauled on the port tack, the Titania skirted the western side of the island. It was soon evident that her presence was observed, for with true Hunnish effrontery the Zug gave a long blast on her syren and hoisted the German colours.

"So much for the Swedish myth," commented Harborough. "Fritz likes to crow when he thinks he's on top. Now we'll see if the fish will bite."

Apparently the Zug's crew were puzzled when the approaching British vessel, instead of turning and entering the lagoon, held on a course parallel to the reef. As a matter of fact, owing to a miscalculation on the part of Captain Siegfried Strauss, the steamer had anchored off Nua Leha, under the impression that she was at Ni Telang. The merest fluke prevented this error from leading to the accidental discovery of the sunken treasure of the Fusi Yama.

But when the Titania held on, Strauss began to puzzle his brains. If this were the island he could not understand why the Englishmen should admit defeat so tamely. Something was wrong somewhere.

He checked his chronometer and sextant readings and revised his figures. Suddenly he gave a howl of angry astonishment. There was an error making a difference of fifty-five minutes of longitude.

With an oath he shouted for the cable to be hove short, at the same time ringing to the engine-room to "stand by", ignoring von Giespert (who had joined the ship at Batavia), and was demanding an explanation.

"I have the speed of that craft," he decided. "I'll beat her yet."

"She's weighing, sir," reported Villiers, who had been keeping the Zug under observation by means of powerful binoculars. "They've steam on her winch."

Harborough's rugged features wore a weird smile.

"That's the stuff to give 'em," he exclaimed. "Tell O'Loghlin to give her full throttle. We'll have to keep up the pretence."

With every stitch of canvas set and both engines developing their utmost horse-power, the Titania skirted the eastern and north-eastern extremities of Nua Leha. So far the wind helped her, but presently she would be headed by the breeze.

Before an intervening headland cut off a view of the lagoon it was seen that the Zug was actually under way. Harborough's bluff looked like succeeding. At all events the rival concern was being lured away from the maritime Tom Tiddler's ground.

"So she hasn't located the wreck," commented Harborough, as pleased as a dog with two tails. "We'll let her beat us on the last lap."

"It will be dark before they arrive," remarked Beverley.

"So much the better," rejoined Harborough. "If they choose to pile her upon the reef that's their affair. I wouldn't risk it."

The excitement of the speed-contest killed all sense of disappointment at having to retrace their course. For once at least Harborough evinced greater interest in what lay astern than in what lay ahead.

"There she is," exclaimed half a dozen voices, as the Zug's bows appeared from behind the headland.

A dense column of smoke was pouring from her funnel, and, judging by the size of the "bone in her teeth", she was chugging through the water at a pace that threatened overheated bearings and sundry other troubles in the engine-room.

"I reckon she's doing a good couple of knots more than the old Titania," declared Villiers, who, having been busy with the stowing of canvas, had strolled aft to watch the overhauling craft. "It's a wonder that they don't open fire on us through sheer force of habit."

"They'd like to, I don't doubt," rejoined Harborough. "I wouldn't be surprised if she suddenly ports her helm when she's abreast of us. We'll have to watch her."

"She's slowing down," exclaimed Bobby. "That's engine-trouble."

"I think not," said Harborough. "She's easing down because she knows she has the heels of us. She's letting us pilot her, but I'll bet when she sights land she'll go all out again. Right-o, Fritz, go your own gait, I don't mind, s'long as you keep clear of Nua Leha."

An hour later the look-out reported land ahead. The three peaks of Ni Telang were showing above the horizon, standing out clearly against the late afternoon sun.

Viewed from the east'ard, there was a strong similarity between the two islands, so that, apart from the Hun navigator's error in determining his position, the mistake was to a certain extent explicable.

For the next hour the Zug hung resolutely at the heels of her rival; then, apparently satisfied as to the precise locality of the goal, she increased speed, and in a blatant bullying fashion overhauled and passed the smaller and slower Titania.

The Hun bulwarks were lined with stolid-looking men whose faces looked like masks concealing a vulgar triumph. The Titania's people simply ignored them. The common courtesies of the high seas were dispensed with; there were no dipping of ensigns and exchange of signals. For all the outward notice she attracted, the Zug might have been non-existent.

There was no lowering of screens revealing a battery of quick-firers; no foaming track of a torpedo; no attempt on the part of the Hun to put his helm hard over and ram his rival. No doubt the desire to do so was present, but the fear of detection and consequent punishment was too great.

It was soon obvious to von Giespert and his henchman Strauss that the race was by no means a decided event. There was little doubt but that the German-owned vessel would arrive off the island first, but in the race against darkness the latter would win easily.

With the suddenness common to tropical climes, the short twilight gave place to intense darkness. There was no moon and the stars were obscured. The Titania displayed her navigation light, but the Zug apparently did not. She might have shown her port and starboard lights, but even by the aid of night-glasses no red and green blurr was visible from the Titania; nor did the leading vessel hoist a stern light. All that indicated her presence was a phosphorescent swirl in the water under her stumpy counter, and an occasional display of sparks from her funnel.

Harborough could well afford to hold on, although the low-lying reefs of Ni Telang were not so many miles away. Following in the wake of the Zug, he knew that the Hun vessel would give him fair warning of the partly-submerged danger, because if the Hun tramp piled herself upon the coral there would be sufficient time for the Titania to port her helm hard over and avoid the danger.

But presently the Zug ported her helm. She had now displayed her navigation lights, and the white and green showed two points on the Titania's starboard bow.

"She's funked it, by Jove!" ejaculated Villiers.

"And I don't blame her," added Harborough, straining his ears to catch the sound of the roar of the surf above the steady pulsations of the engines. "Now we'll have to watch her. It's like a game of musical chairs with two players for a solitary vacant seat. We'll have to keep our end up till dawn, and then we'll let them slip in."

It was an eerie night. Except those whose duties required them to be below, the Titania's crew remained on deck. Up and down on a four-mile beat parallel to the eastern side of Ni Telang the two vessels cruised, passing and repassing each other like two dogs "ready to wound and yet afraid to strike ". Occasionally the Titania played her searchlights upon the island in order to verify her position, although Harborough took good care not to let the beams bear upon the rival ship.

Shortly after midnight the Zug attempted the passage through the reef. By the aid of an Aldis lamp in her bows she cautiously approached the gap in the line of foam that showed ghastly-white in the tropical darkness. But almost at the moment of success Strauss's nerve failed him, and, reversing engines, the German vessel backed away.

At length Harborough consulted the luminous dial of his wristlet watch.

"It'll be dawn in another ten minutes," he announced. "We'll carry on a little longer than usual on this course, and let them think we've been caught napping."

His surmise was correct. The Titania was three miles off the N.E. extremity of the island, when the lofty peaks were lighted up with the blush of a new-born day. The Zug, marking time off the entrance to the lagoon, promptly took the narrow channel through the reef, rolling heavily as she passed the jagged fringe of surf-swept coral. Then, with a rush and a roar, her cable tore through the hawse-pipe and she came to a standstill, head to wind, off the Island of Ni Telang. Harborough smiled grimly.

"You've hit the wrong island this time, old son," he exclaimed contentedly. "But it was a narrow squeak for us."

CHAPTER XVII

Nua Leha

Twenty minutes later, conned by Swaine from the fore cross-trees, the Titania followed her duped rival into the lagoon. It was as yet too early to pretend to abandon the enterprise. The deception had to be maintained until von Giespert was fully convinced that he was on the right track.

A cast of the lead gave fifteen fathoms.

"Let go!" ordered Harborough. "Fifteen fathoms will give those fellows plenty to do to search for an imaginary wreck. Give her fifty fathoms of cable, Mr. Villiers; then we'll pipe all hands to breakfast."

Meals on board the Titania were always plenteous repasts, for Harborough realized that a well-fed crew meant efficiency and capacity for work; but upon this occasion the breakfast was a sumptuous one. There was no hurry; the primary object of the night's vigil had been accomplished, and the Zug had been enticed a full fifty miles away from the golden cargo of the sunken Fusi Yama. So all hands breakfasted in style, after which the watch below turned in and the duty watch began the customary routine.

Harborough was enjoying a cigar in the after-cabin when he heard a hail from on deck, "Boat ahoy!"

"Thought the blighter couldn't resist the temptation to try and pull my leg," he soliloquized, as he glanced into a mirror to assure himself that his appearance was fitting as captain of a British yacht.

"Boat from the Zug, sir," reported Merridew.

Harborough went on deck to receive his uninvited guests.

The Zug's gig was already alongside, manned by four hands in white-canvas suits. In the stern sheets sat von Giespert and Captain Strauss.

Von Giespert raised his cap as he came over the side. Harborough punctiliously returned the salute, but feigned to overlook the proffered hand.

"Sir Hugh Harborough, I presume," said the German.

"Mr. Borgen," rejoined Harborough.

The Hun shrugged his shoulders.

"Perhaps it would be better if I introduced myself as Herr Kaspar von Giespert," he said.

Harborough showed no surprise at the announcement.

"That is not really necessary, Herr von Giespert," he remarked. "But I thought that perhaps you preferred to continue to sail under your false colours."

Von Giespert waved a podgy hand deprecatingly.

"I think we understand one another," he declared, with mock humility. "The war is over, and peace is an established fact. You Englishmen were ever generous to a beaten foe, and I feel certain that you will be willing to shake hands and forget the regrettable happenings of the past four and a half years."

"Speaking for my fellow-countrymen," replied Harborough, "and I think I'm voicing their opinions, I am in accord with what you say up to a certain point. Generosity to the vanquished has always been a Briton's strong point, but, unfortunately for Germany, her utterly-vile conduct during the war, until she knew the game was up, is sufficient to put her outside the pale for the next generation. However, I don't suppose you came here to be lectured upon the conduct of your compatriots. Suppose you get straight to the point and state your business."

"We are both here on the same quest," said von Giespert suavely. "In England there is a proverb: 'First come, first served'."

"Quite so," agreed Harborough gravely. "There is also another: 'A fair field and no favour'. However, you haven't made yourself clear. Pray continue."

"Being first upon the scene," continued the German, "I claim a right to conduct uninterrupted operations. My vessel lies almost over the wreck, therefore I object to your working within a couple of cables of her. That, I think, is a fair and reasonable request."

"Have you always been fair and reasonable in your transactions, Herr von Giespert?" inquired Harborough.

"Certainly," replied von Giespert in a tone of virtuous indignation.

"You would not, for instance," continued the baronet in firm, even tones, "you would not lower yourself to the extent of kidnapping one of my officers (possibly under the mistaken impression that it was I), hoping to throw my plans out of gear?"

"Your insinuation surprises me," exclaimed von Giespert. "I cannot understand why you should voice it."

"Supposing I am in a position to prove that you would do such a thing," resumed Harborough, "would you be willing to abandon your claim to the treasure?"

"I would," answered the German hastily, somewhat to Harborough's surprise.

"Villiers!" he called out. "Come here a minute."

Both von Giespert and Strauss turned a sickly yellow hue when Jack Villiers, cool and unperturbed, stepped briskly out of the chart-house. The Huns had up to that moment imagined that he had been drowned after he took his flying leap from the deck of the Zug.

"You've lost, Herr Giespert," said Harborough. "A charge of attempted murder would land you in a very tight corner. That, however, is Mr. Villiers' affair."

"No harm done," declared Villiers. "We'll call it a case of mistaken identity when you sand-bagged me, Herr Strauss. It was an episode—an experience that will come in useful if ever I take to literature. I might call it an asset, so we'll wipe off that account."

The Germans were dumbfounded. They failed utterly to grasp the young Englishman's attitude. Von Giespert, desperate, even when losing, tried to bargain.

"Suppose, Sir Hugh," he resumed, "suppose we work in partnership—on equal shares? Surely, after all the expense to which we have been put, you will not deprive us of a chance of recovering our losses?"

Harborough was on the point of declaring bluntly that he wanted no truck with a Hun, when he remembered the main thread of his scheme.

"I'm dead off partnerships," he replied. "You've lost, and you must accept my terms. I think if it came to a question of force I'd still hold the whip-hand. However, that issue rests with you. You claim priority. I'll admit that. You can just carry on in your own sweet way for a month. It's up to you to slog in like blue blazes and get the stuff before the expiration of the time-limit. Got that? Good enough; good morning."

The still-bewildered Huns backed away to the gangway and descended to their boat. On the face of it they could hardly credit their good fortune. Their rivals had unaccountably retired from the contest, leaving them in uninterrupted possession of the lagoon for a whole month. With reasonable luck the wreck ought to be located and the gold transferred to the Zug in a fortnight.

Half an hour later in the stateroom of each ship an almost identical performance was in progress. On board the Titania Harborough was receiving the congratulations of his fellow-adventurers on his successful strategy; on the Zug von Giespert and Strauss were shaking hands with each other and drinking with the rest of the ship's officers to the success of the next month's labours.

At noon the Titania weighed. It was a calm day with not enough air to give the yacht steerage-way. Under power she slipped through the entrance to the broad lagoon, and shaped a course that was certainly not in the direction of Nua Leha.

"She's dipping, sir!" announced Merridew, indicating the German vessel.

The Zug dipped her red, white, and black ensign thrice, a hollow compliment that the Titania duly returned. Both crews, being firmly under the impression that they had scored heavily, could well afford these courtesies.

Upon passing beyond the ten-fathom line—which, owing to the fact that the reef was steep-to, was but a couple of hundred yards beyond the foam-lashed barrier—the Titania's helm was ported and she shaped a southerly course. This she held until the high peaks of Ni Telang were almost hidden by the skyline, then altering course she made for her goal.

There was now a steady following breeze which, although not so favourable as one broad on the beam, enabled her to keep up a fair speed without having recourse to the motors, and at one bell in the first dog watch she crossed the bar of Nua Leha. It was exactly at dead-low water, yet there were at least five feet under the yacht's keel. That meant that, unless there were a nasty breaking sea on a bar, the entrance was available at any state of the tide, which even at spring never ranged more than four feet six inches.