The most important part of Jack’s task was still before him. He had determined to be in the turret room of Congleton’s Folly on Wednesday evening; how was he to get there? The removable steps were no doubt being used by the signaler; but it was not likely that they were still hidden in the same place. De Fronsac, of course, would believe Jack to be safe in a French prison; but the last hiding-place having been so easily discovered, he would certainly choose a new one. Yet, if the tower was to be entered, steps of some kind must be had. Jack spent a quiet Sunday, and early on Monday morning drove a few miles inland to another village, where he entered the smithy and asked the smith if he could make him quickly a dozen iron loops with a tail to them. "Well, maybe I might," said the smith, "if you showed me the pattern." "Here you are," replied Jack, drawing a rough sketch of the article he wanted with a piece of charcoal on the side of the forge. "And what might that be for, measter?" the smith inquired. "A cur’ous looking objeck." "Yes, isn’t it? ’Tis for a game I’m going to play—quite a new thing in these parts." "Well, to be sure! And how thick do ’ee want ’em?" Jack could only guess the dimensions. He tried to recall the size of the holes in the wall of the _Folly_, and gave the smith a thickness which he hoped would turn out within the mark. The steps were easily made when the man had grasped the idea. Getting them wrapped up, Jack drove back to Middleton, and thence to Waddon, where Babbage and the crew of the _Fury_ were unfeignedly glad to see him once more. "’Tis long waiting when you don’t know, sir," said Babbage. "As brother Sol used to say: ’Wait not, want not,’ and true it is, though so plain." During the rest of Monday and all Tuesday the _Fury_ cruised down Channel, merely to kill time. The men wondered why their young commander did not sail out to sea and do some scouting work, if nothing else, but Jack did not wish to run any risks; besides, he was busily occupied in drawing up a message in the cipher used by the signaler at the Folly. On Wednesday morning the _Fury_ put in once more at Waddon, and Jack left again. These mysterious absences were somewhat trying to Babbage’s equanimity. "But there," he said, talking the matter over with Turley, "to gentlemen of eddication, I s’pose, our heads—yourn an’ mine, Turley—be only like so many turnips." "Mr. Babbage?" Turley’s tone was one of surprise and remonstrance. "Wot?" "Not Turnips." "Why not?" "Why, sir, ’cos they have Tops." "Not when they’re mashed, Turley, wi’ butter, or dripping for cheapness." *CHAPTER XVII* *DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND*