"Pardon, Madame," he said, "I am late. Last night I see a fine moon; it drew me out towards de so beautiful sea over dere"—he pointed in a direction exactly contrary to that taken by the figure followed by the boys—"and I compose a little poem on de Minotaur—who is, of course, dat Monstair Bonaparte." "That’s strange, Monsieur," said Jack, at whom Arthur had been staring very hard while the Frenchman spoke. "I could not sleep last night, and went out for a stroll, and I could have sworn I saw you coming just the opposite way." "Ah! I see you also. I see you drough my curtains—ven you climb up de pipe. To mariners dat is, of course, as easy as the staircase; but as for me, I shudder." "Gave you the flutters, eh, Monsieur?" "Myself I vould say de tr-r-rembling. De poem I compose, Madame, it begin— "’_Is dere a creature vizout shame?_ _Napoleon—so is he name._ _Is dere a creature vizout heart?_ _Ah! yes!—de Monstair Bonaparte._’" "Yes, but Monsieur," persisted Jack, "I saw some one uncommonly like you going the other way, towards Laxted Cove." "Ah, Monsieur Jack, ve have a proverb, ’In the dark all cats are gray.’ Dat you see some vun, it is certain; but me—no, Monsieur Jack, how can it? I vas composing my poem—over dere." *CHAPTER VI* *SIGNALS* In the course of the morning Jack received from a carrier a note summoning him to rejoin his ship at once. His cousins were sorry to bid him good-by, and, though he was eager enough to return to his duty, he was so much interested in the strange things that had happened since his arrival at Bastable Grange that he would have liked very well to remain a few days longer and try to unravel the mystery by which he seemed to be surrounded. Before leaving he took Arthur aside for a moment. "Look here, youngster," he said, "keep your eye on De Fronsac. If he tries to pump out of you what we saw last night, tell him we saw a boat putting out to sea and wondered whether the smugglers were at work. Don’t say a word about the man we saw put on board. Don’t let him think we suspect him. And it will be as well to take a note of the days when he reels off poetry." "All right.—I say!" "Well?" "His poetry is fearful rubbish, isn’t it?" "Never made any myself, but I fancy I could do as well as he. Good-by. Remember what I said." Jack returned to Wynport in a carrier’s cart. He went down at once to the harbor, and was rowed to the _Fury_, which lay at her moorings, just inside the bar. A stout old mariner was leaning over the side, smoking a big pipe. One of his eyes was considerably larger than the other; a big and very bulbous nose seemed to occupy the greater part of his face; and a long black curl hung in a graceful curve over his right brow. Guessing instinctively that this could be none other than Ben Babbage, Gumley’s friend, and bo’sun of the cutter, Jack hailed him. "_Fury_ ahoy!"