It was already dark when the four men returned to where Alan Hawke lay perdu with his murderous mate. Not a light was now to be seen but the one glimmer below in the “Public,” on the Rozel pier. And the very last words had been spoken between “Gentleman Jack Blunt” and his crafty employer. “Now, remember,” said Jack, “Antoine here goes down with orders to come up the cliff ahead of old Simpson. You’ll surely be warned of his approach. You can give the boatswain his orders; there’ll be three to one. Your man leads you to your men at the tower. And I am to crack that crib and make for the Hirondelle! “If chased, the boat runs out to sea, and you are both only honest, French fishermen storm-driven ashore in search of supplies!” “That’s it, Jack! You are to wait for me, if the house is not alarmed. I’ll bring some ‘passengers,’ perhaps, on board. If I fail, you are just to run for Granville. We will all meet at Etienne’s. I’ve got money to take care of all my men. You are to make no miss. I can wait and try again if I am disappointed. I’ll take no chances. With your success, I can hold the old miser down, and your two thousand pounds is safe; besides, the swag is your security. You see, he will never dare to make any public outcry, for he secretly fears the Government! We take only the safest chances. He may stay down there all night at St. Heliers, and your lucky chance will never come again. Go ahead, and do not fail!” The two men grasped hands in an excited clinch. “Do up Simpson for a dead man, and no mistake!” hoarsely whispered Jack Blunt. “I’ll fix the old blanc-bec,” growled the boatswain, as the spy slid down the hill toward Rozel Pier. “Take my flask, Jack!” said Alan Hawke. “I don’t drink on duty!” simply replied Blunt. “I shall get at work by eleven, and you’ll hear from me by midnight! Then, look out only for yourself! The boat is mine, if there’s any alarm. I’ll send her back soon to Rozel Pier, if I have to run out to sea, and you are to be only honest fishermen. How long shall I wait in the cove for you?” “Sail at three o’clock, if I’m not on board! Remember the hail, ‘Saint Malo, Ahoy!’” “This is dead square, for life and death!” cried Blunt. “Dead square,” echoed the renegade officer. Darkness now doubled its black folds, and the roar of the surf boomed sullenly upon the rocky Rozel beach. Crouching in their cave, the two French thugs eagerly watched the winding path below, and gathered a resentful vulpine ferocity in their hearts. With knife in one hand, and the heavy lead-weighted blackjacks in readiness, they cowered upon the path, waiting for the old soldier, whose thickened eyes were still sullenly gazing at the dingy clock in the Jersey Arms. He hated to leave the pretty, white-armed Ann.