The other still hovered, as if questioning the sea with thin querulous cries. The coastguard drew near, and it too fled seaward, abandoning the enigma that lay with the little waves lapping round it in retreat. The coastguard stopped at the edge of the water and stood with his hands on his hips contemplating the jetsam. "Another of 'em," he said, and was for wading out there and then, till he remembered his wife and what she said the last time he went in with his boots on. Accordingly he removed his boots and socks, rolled up his bell-bottomed trousers, and splashed out to where the thing was lying. He turned it over gingerly and he shook his head. "'Dentity disc," he muttered, and pulling out his knife, severed the cord that connected a little metal disc to what lay at his feet. Then he retraced his steps to where his boots were lying, examining the disc as he walked. Three rows of letters and some figures were stamped on it. With difficulty he deciphered them: A. E. JONES, TMR. R.N.R.T. 1347 BAP. With more haste than he had hitherto exhibited the coastguard replaced his socks and boots and returned to the coastguard station. His mate was examining a steam-drifter far out to sea through the big brass-bound high-power telescope. He turned as the new-comer entered. The latter threw the disc down on to the desk and stepped to the telephone. "A. E. Jones," he said; "Trimmer, Royal Naval Reserve, Trawler Section, No. 1347. Religion, Baptist." The other nodded, and resumed his scrutiny of the distant drifter. "Bin in the water long?" he inquired. "Weeks," said the other, turning the handle of the telephone bell, "an' weeks." Then he picked up the receiver, and in half a dozen terse sentences set in motion that part of the vast and complex machinery of the British Admiralty interested in the affairs--even unto death--of R.N.R. (T.) No. 1347. An hour later an immaculate young gentleman with paper protectors to his cuffs, who occupied a corner of a large dusty room overlooking Whitehall, was running his pen down the pages of a tome resembling in appearance the Doomsday Book. "J," he said. "Um--m--m. Jo--Jones--1347. Next of kin, mother. That's the fellah." Then he wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to a messenger, glanced at the clock, removed his paper protectors from his cuffs, and went off to his lunch, and the spiritual refreshment of twenty minutes' badinage with a rather coy waitress at a popular café.