"Queer feeling about her, don't you think?" said Quarles. "We're just deadly afraid of the night and spooks, that's what we are if there is anyone to question us." I followed him down into the cabin. At the foot of the companion Quarles flashed a pocket electric torch. It was only a momentary flash, then darkness again as he gave a warning little hiss. Three glasses on the table was all I had seen. I supposed the professor had seen something more, but I was wrong. After standing perfectly motionless for a minute or so, he flashed the light again, and sent the ray round the cabin. The appointments were faded, the covering of the long, fixed seats on either side of the table was torn in places. One of these seats had evidently served as a bunk, for a pillow and folded blanket were lying upon it. All the paint work was dirty and scratched. Forward, there was a door into the galley; aft, another door to another cabin. "A crew of three," said Quarles. "Three glasses, plenty of liquor left in the bottle in the rack yonder, a pipe and a pouch, and a conundrum." He let the light rest on a sheet of paper lying beside the glasses. On it was written: "S. B. Piles--one with chain--9th link. N. B. Direct. Mud--high water--90 and 4 feet." "A conundrum, Wigan. What do you make of it?" He held out the paper to me, a useless thing to do, since he allowed the ray from the torch to wander slowly round the cabin again. "We must look at the pile with the chain," he muttered in a disconnected way, as though he were thinking of something quite different. "And at the ninth link of the chain," I said. "Yes, at the ninth link. A conundrum, Wigan. A----" He stopped. His eyes had suddenly become fixed upon some object behind me. The electric ray fell slanting close by me, and when I turned I saw that the end of it was under the cushioned seat on one side of the table. The light fell upon a golf club--a rusty mashie. "That man on the green was one of the crew, Wigan," said Quarles; and then when I picked up the club we looked into each other's eyes. "Did I not say the yacht had a queer feeling about her?" he said in a whisper. I knew what he meant. The mashie had something besides rust on it now, something wet, moist and sticky. Quarles glanced at the door of the galley as he put the paper on the table, careful to place it in the exact position in which he had found it; then he went quickly to the cabin aft.