A few minutes later a cloud of white spray indicated the approach of a small craft travelling at a high rate of speed. Quinton continued to watch the approaching boat until the humped shoulders of a submarine-chaser were distinguishable through the spume. As the boats neared each other he gave a quick command to the engineer, and the speed of the motor-boat decreased. At the same moment the curtain of spray that screened the on-coming chaser died down, her fine and sinister lines becoming discernible. Dexterously the helmsman brought the motor-boat alongside the larger vessel and, without a word there stepped on board a little man wearing motor-goggles and a red beard of rather truculent shape, and a naval commander whom the stranger introduced to Quinton as Commander Ryles. With a nod to the man with the boathook, and a wave of his arm to those aboard the chaser, James Grant took his seat together with Commander Ryles beside Quinton, the motor-boat pushed off and, with a graceful sweep, turned her nose northwards and proceeded to run up her own track. Grant and Quinton continued to talk in undertones, Grant asking questions, Quinton answering with great economy of words and prodigious salivation. The chaser, steering a south-westerly course, was soon out of sight. As the motor-boat entered the little harbour, Grant's eyes eagerly fixed themselves upon the _Toronto_, seeming to take in every detail of her construction. "Ready for the trial trip?" he enquired of Quinton. "Sure," was the reply as he spat over the side. "Jim there?" Quinton jerked his thumb in the direction of the _Toronto_, for which the motor-boat was making. As they reached her the two men nimbly climbed up the side and, Quinton leading, dived below to the office of works. As they entered Blake was sitting exactly as Quinton had left him an hour and a half previously. At the sight of Grant his eyes seemed to flash; but he made no movement except to hold out his hand, which Grant gripped. "Through with everything?" he enquired, as he seated himself, and Quinton threw himself on a locker. "Sure," replied Blake. "I----" began Grant, then breaking off cast a swift look over his shoulder. Blake nodded his head comprehendingly, whilst Quinton spat in the direction of the door as if to defy eavesdroppers. From his pocket Grant drew a map, which he proceeded to unfold upon the table. Quinton walked across and the three bent over, studying it with absorbed interest. Meanwhile Commander Ryles had been shown to his cabin. CHAPTER XIII THE DISAPPEARANCE OF JOHN DENE "No more Saturday afternoons for you and John Dene, little mother," cried Dorothy with forced gaiety as she rose from the breakfast table. Mrs. West looked up quickly. "Why?" she asked, a falter in her voice. "He's going away," announced Dorothy indifferently, as she pinned on her hat. "To Canada?" asked Mrs. West anxiously.