"But I thought that he was not allowed to enter the Republican territory again?" "Oh, he's made all that square. He and Señora Guzman are steaming back to Indiana to-morrow," replied Ritson, lying frankly. "I'll go too," muttered Maud, "that is, if----" she huddled her wraps about her and stole a vicious glance at Herries, which passed unnoticed in the darkness. There was not much conversation. Herries was anxiously wondering if Gowrie would be accused of committing the crime, and was congratulating himself that he had not informed Inspector Trent about the meeting on the yacht. He would scarcely have been so easy in his mind, had he known that Ritson had arranged with Trent that the police should board the "Tarabacca" between nine and ten o'clock, when the truth had been told, as it was probable it would be by that time. Ritson, on his side, was debating if he would inform Herries that Pope Narby had tried to pass one of the notes for which Sir Simon had been murdered. The lawyer had no doubt in his own mind but that Pope was the culprit, and privately considered himself a fool, for taking four thousand pounds in gold on board the yacht to pay Kyles for information already received. In fact, he had intended to stop away, but Trent had advised him to go, and to hear what Kyles would say. Then, even if the money were paid, it could be recovered again by the police, when they paid the proposed visit. Kyles did not expect that the law would board his nefarious craft on that night, and within a couple of hours. As for Maud, she kept glancing every now and then at her cousin and hugging her secret to her breast. She had conceived an idea, by which she hoped to get back her fortune and thus secure Kyles. "If I could only get him away from that woman," thought Maud, "I would be quite happy. And when I have the money----" she glanced again at Herries, and laughed softly. "What is amusing you, Maud?" he asked, rather uneasy at mirth so obviously out of place. "Only my own thoughts," she muttered. "Shall we soon be there?" Herries nodded. The yacht was only a stone throw away. As he looked, the long black form of the launch shot out from behind the ship, and steamed at full speed up the Thames, in the direction--as it seemed to Herries,--of the waterway which led to the "Marsh Inn." "That boat can go," he said, wondering what was up. "Ah, sir, she just can," said one of the boatmen, as the launch sped along scattering the white foam from her sides to glisten in the pale moonlight. "She's been dodging about these waters for the last month or so, racing between Tarhaven and Pierside. She can show a clean pair of heels, like the yacht herself." "Is she quick?" The boatman chuckled. "I should just think so. A mate of mine met one of the engineers, a Scotch chap, and he said that she could steam hell for leather, begging the lady's pardon."