"Who has the nerve to tell Mr. Chichester that there's something to eat here?" said Lady Derryclare, minutely examining the butter. "Philippa is obviously indicated," I said malignly. "She is the Friend of his Youth!" "You're all odious," said Philippa, sliding from beneath the flap of the table with the light of the lion-tamer in her eye. What transpired between her and the lion we shall never know. She returned almost immediately, with a heightened colour, and the irrelevant information that the Diver had come on board. The news had the lifting power of a high explosive. We burst from the cabin and went on deck as one man, with the exception of my wife, who, with a forethought that did her credit, turned back to improvise a cosy for the teapot. The Diver was a large person, of few words, with a lowering brow and a heavy moustache. He did not minimise the greatness of his condescension in coming aboard the yacht; he listened gloomily to the explanations of Lord Derryclare. At the conclusion of the narrative he moved in silence to the bows and surveyed the situation. His boat, containing the apparatus of his trade, was alongside; a stalwart underling, clad in a brown jersey, sat in the bows; in the stern was enthroned the helmet, goggling upon us like a decapitated motorist. It imparted a thrill that I had not experienced since I read Jules Verne at school. "Here, Jeremiah," said the Diver. The satellite came on deck with the single sinuous movement of a salmon. The Diver motioned him to the windlass. "We'll take a turn at this first," he said. They took each a handle, they bent to their task, and the anchor rose at their summons like a hot knife out of butter. Every man present, with the exception of the Diver and the satellite, made the simple declaration that he was damned, and it was in the period of paralysis following on this that a fresh ingredient was added to the situation. A giant voice filled the air, and in a windy bellow came the words: "Nice lot you are!" We faced about and saw "Ronnie's torpedo-boat" executing a sweeping curve in the mouth of Eyries Harbour. "Couldn't wait any longer!" proceeded the voice of the Megaphone. "We've got to pick up the others outside. Thanks awfully for luncheon! Top-hole!" T.B. No. 1000 completed the curve and headed for the open sea with a white mane of water rising above her bows. There was something else white fluttering at the stern. I put up the field-glasses, and with their aid perceived upon the deck a party of four ladies, one of whom was waving a large pocket handkerchief. The glasses were here taken out of my hand by Chichester, but not before I had identified the Flapper.