"Jerry Sands has got away all right. He wasn't on any munition boat! I was arrested five minutes ago. I'm being taken to Scotland Yard, and I've fifty thousand pounds' worth of his diamonds on me! I shouldn't worry about the girl if I were you, Aaron. I think Jerry Sands' sister can take care of herself!" "Where's Cresswell?" "Here with me." "Could he come?" "He's joined an O.T.C. I don't suppose he could get leave. Besides, can't you understand, Aaron? She is Jerry Sands' sister and they're off together somewhere, for certain.... What's that? ... What? ..." There was a confused babel of sounds--nothing more distinct. The connection had been cut. Harvey Grimm spent five minutes in vain, trying to re-establish it. Then he left the booth. "Nice cropper for us, Stephen," he announced to the poet, who was waiting outside. "That was Aaron. The girl's given him the slip down at Tilbury. He's like a madman, of course." The inspector, who had lit his second cigarette, strolled up. "I am afraid," he said, "that people are beginning to recognise us. Don't you think----?" "You are quite right, sir," Harvey Grimm assented. "You have been very considerate. I am entirely at your service now. Good luck to you, Cresswell. Go back and finish your luncheon. You can sign the bill for me." The poet played the game and departed, after a hearty handshake. Harvey Grimm took his seat in a taxicab, the inspector by his side, the constable opposite. They drove off. "Enquiries, eh?" Harvey Grimm ruminated. "I wonder what you want to enquire about?" "I fancy," the inspector said confidentially, "that the Chief will start by having you searched." "What do you expect to find, if it's a fair question?" The inspector smiled. He had thrust his arm in friendly fashion through his companion's. "We've an idea," he replied, "that this time we shall find a few of Jerry Sands' diamonds." _Chapter X_ _The End of Jeremiah Sands_ Aaron Rodd clasped his arms a little further around the barrel against which he was leaning, trod water with his feet and thought about death. The curtain of a slight mist had fallen around him. There was nothing visible but the cold, grey sea, sometimes high above his head, sometimes like a water-slide tumbling away many feet below him. All around him he could hear the hooting of the steamers, sounding their weird notes of warning from some unseen, unimaginable world. A few feet away, also clinging to a barrel, was a bronzed and hairy man in nautical attire, who was using the most awful language. "No good wasting your breath," Aaron gasped. "Try another shout." The man did as he was advised, without eliciting any reply from the other side of the grey walls, whereupon he proceeded once more, in lurid language, to express his opinion of murdering foreigners, and mysterious gents who tempted honest tug-masters into doubtful enterprises. Suddenly he broke off.