They were nearing Bloem’s house at that moment, and a lean dark figure loomed startlingly out of the shadow of the hedge. A pencil of luminance leapt from Orace’s torch and picked up the pleasantly vacuous face of Algy himself. “Is that you, Pat?” he said. “I thought I recognised your voice.” He was surprised at the firmness with which she grasped the limp paw he extended. “I was just looking for you,” she said crisply. “Come over to the Pill Box. We’re going to have some dinner and hold a council of war.” “W-w-what?” stammered Algy. “Don’t waste time. I’ll tell you when we get there.” There was so much crisp command in her tone that he fell in beside them obediently. “But, dear old peach,” he protested weakly. “There’s no comic old war on, don’t you know! Is it a joke? I’ll buy it. Never say Algy isn’t a sportsman, old darling.” “There’s nothing very funny about it,” she said, and something deadly about her obvious seriousness made him hold his peace for the rest of the journey. In the Pill Box, she sat down at once to the food Orace provided, though Algy excused himself. He had already dined, and as a matter of fact, he explained, he had been on his way to visit her at the Manor. While she ate she talked—in curt, cold sentences which held even the fatuous Algy intent. She told him the whole story from beginning to end, and his jaw sagged lower and lower as the recital proceeded. And when it was finished she looked anxiously at him, wondering whether he would say something foolish and soothing about the heat of the day and the probability that she would feel better in the morning—or, if he believed her, whether he would show up yellow. She was satisfied to find that her estimate had been correct. While she looked, he closed his mouth with a snap, and the tightening of his mouth lent a new strength to his face. His eyes were gazing steadily back at her, and there was a steady soberness in them which transformed him. “Just like a shilling shocker—what?” said Algy quietly, but there was not much flippancy in his voice. She outlined their plan, and he was staggered. “You’ve a nerve!” he remarked. “But isn’t that old Carn’s job?” “It was the Saint’s idea,” she told him; “and it’s such a desperate gamble that it might as easily succeed as not. As for Carn—we daren’t bank on him. He mightn’t know as much as we think, and he mayn’t have gone into Ilfracombe for the reason we suppose—we can only hope for the best. But we’ve got to be prepared to take the field without him. And, besides, as you’ll understand, I’ve rather a special desire to meet the Tiger and talk to him alone. . . .” For an amazing moment Algy saw death in her eyes; then, with the clenching of a small fist, the ferocity passed, and she was once again the cold, calculating general planning an attack. “I know you swim pretty well,” she said. “Can you do the distance?” He nodded. “I think so.” “Will you?”