With an effort he hoisted himself up into the boat. "Nothing much, thanks," he answered in that curious composed voice of his. "I think one of our friends made a luckier shot than he deserved to. It's only my left arm, though." I seized the sculls, and began to pull off quickly for the _Betty_. "We'll look at it in a second," I said. "Are they after you?" He laughed. "Yes, some little way after. I took the precaution of starting in the other direction and then doubling back. It worked excellently." He spoke in the same rather amused drawl as he had done at the hut, and there was no hint of hurry or excitement in his manner. I could just see, however, that he was dressed in rough, common-looking clothes, and that he was no longer wearing an eye-glass. If he had had a cap, he had evidently parted with it during his dive into the sea. A few strokes brought us to the _Betty_, where Tommy was leaning over the side ready to receive us. "All right?" he inquired coolly, as we scrambled on board. "Nothing serious," replied Latimer. "Thanks to you and--and this gentleman." "They've winged him, Tommy," I said. "Can you take her out while I have a squint at the damage?" Tommy's answer was to thrust in the clutch of the engine, and with an abrupt jerk we started off down the creek. As we did so there came a sudden hail from the shore. "Boat ahoy! What boat's that?" It was a deep, rather dictatorial sort of voice, with the faintest possible touch of a foreign accent about it. Latimer replied at once in a cheerful, good-natured bawl, amazingly different from his ordinary tone: "Private launch, _Vanity_, Southend; and who the hell are you?" Whether the vigour of the reply upset our questioner or not, I can't say. Anyhow he returned no answer, and leaving him to think what he pleased, we continued our way out into the main stream. "Come into the cabin and let's have a look at you," I said to Latimer. "You must get those wet things off, anyhow." He followed me inside, where I took down the small hanging lamp and placed it on the table. Then very carefully I helped him strip off his coat, bringing to light a grey flannel shirt, the left sleeve of which was soaked in blood. I took out my knife, and ripped it up from the cuff to the shoulder. The wound was about a couple of inches above the elbow, a small clean puncture right through from side to side. It was bleeding a bit, but one could see at a glance that the bullet had just missed the bone. "You're lucky," I said. "Another quarter of an inch, and that arm would have been precious little use to you for the next two months. Does it hurt much?" He shook his head. "Not the least," he replied carelessly. "I hardly knew I was hit until you grabbed hold of me." I tied my handkerchief round as tightly as possible just above the place, and then going to the locker hauled out our spare fancy costume which had previously done duty for Mr. Gow.