Aaron pulled himself together and took a long gulp of the hot whisky which was at that moment brought in. "May I enquire if this is an English man-of-war?" he asked, as he set the glass down. "His Majesty's destroyer, _Flying Fox_," was the brief reply. "Now tell me what you two men are doing on barrels in the North Sea?" Aaron Rodd found a few terse and explicit words. "Early this morning," he said, "I escorted a young lady to Tilbury. We went there on the strength of a bogus telegram, which informed us that her brother, who is a Belgian officer, was leaving there at midday on a munition ship bound for Havre. We found a ship's boat waiting for us at the dock mentioned in the telegram, but they refused to take me on board with her. I thought this reasonable, as it was supposed to be a Government vessel, and I stayed behind to wait for her. She was no sooner safely on board than the steamer hoisted the Norwegian flag and steamed off." The Commander stared for a moment. Then he looked away. "Sounds a queer story," he observed. "It's a true one," Aaron assured him. "Of course, there's a reason for this abduction. The young lady some months ago----" "I don't want the whole story," the Commander interrupted. "I want to know how you got into the North Sea?" "I was coming to that," Aaron Rodd proceeded. "My companion can bear me out as to the rest. I hired his tug, meaning to follow the steamer into whatever port it might go if they refused to take me on board. We caught her up and signalled her to stop. She manoeuvred a little, disclosed a gun, and blew us to pieces. The captain here and I are the only two who ever came up again." The Commander glanced at the lieutenant, who had remained in the room. Not a word passed between them. "Who are you?" he enquired. "My name is Aaron Rodd," was the prompt reply. "I am an American, but I have practised law in England for a good many years. I know my story sounds fanciful, but there's no getting away from the sequel. The tug-master here can confirm every word of it." The tug-master proceeded to do so, and the two officers listened for a time as though fascinated. The Commander interrupted him at last. "What's the name of this boat?" he asked. "She had ss. _Christiania_ painted across her stern," the tug-master said, "and she was flying the Norwegian flag, but the ship's name's new painted. I passed close alongside yesterday, and a queer-looking lot they were on board." The two officers exchanged quick glances. "The _Christiania_," the Commander murmured softly. He paused for a moment and bent over the chart. Then he looked up. "Take Mr. Rodd and the tug-master to the ward-room," he directed. "Rig them both out in some dry clothes and see that they have everything they want." Aaron Rodd had forgotten the discomfort of his condition. He had only one idea in his brain. "Sir," he told the Commander, "that ship, the _Christiania_, is in the pay of the Germans."