“Carn’t see ’im,” he said shortly, and with that he would have dismissed the subject of Mr. Lomas-Coper. “Owda we get dahn this plurry precipyse, Miss Patricia? I’d fergot—we ain’t got no rope ter speak of ’ere.” “He was going to bring some,” said the girl. “I wonder if anything’s happened to him?” She was at a loss to explain the defection of Algy. He had been so thrilled with the adventure that she could not believe that he would deliberately let her down, and she did not number cowardice among his failings. Had Bloem found out that she had enlisted Algy? The possibility of a spy listening outside the embrasure while she talked had not occurred to her, and the thought sent her cold. If they had been overheard, the Tiger Cubs would be waiting for them, and their plan was foredoomed to failure—unless by some brilliant revision it could be brought to bear from another angle. Then she had an inspiration. If Algy had been returning punctually, he would have passed by the quay about the time the boat she had seen was picking up the Tiger himself. Algy knew all the facts, and if he had noticed anything suspicious he would probably have stopped to investigate. Then, like the impetuous ass he was, he’d have managed to drop several large bricks. . . . “They may have got him already,” she said. “I’ve got a hunch what must have happened. We’ll go down and see.” Already she was heading down the hill, and Orace followed protestingly. “’E ain’t werf it, miss, onestter Gawd, ’e ain’t.” “He’s two more men than we can afford to lose,” Patricia retorted crisply. “In any case, we’ve got to go this way. We must get some rope and see if Carn’s back—I’d like to know that the police were going to chip in later, in case we don’t bring it off.” The quay, so called by courtesy, was no more than fifty yards by ten of rough stone, littered with coils of rope, drying nets, lobster-pots, and spars. Behind it were tarred wooden huts used by the fishermen to repair their things; and from one end of it a stone jetty ran out for no more than twenty yards. They stopped and looked round. From a very little distance came a slithering sound and a low groan. Then a weak whisper: “Pat!” Orace had thoughtfully brought his torch, but the girl stopped him using it, aware that they could be seen from the ship if anyone happened to be looking that way. She traced the voice, and almost at once came upon the man lying against the wall of one of the huts. “Is that you, Algy?” “Right—first go,” he got out. “I’m a washout—to get—pipped—bang off—like this!” She was supporting his head with her arm, and Orace was hovering ineffectually around. “How did they get you?” she asked. “Is it bad?” “Think I’ll pull—round—in a sec.,” he muttered with an effort. “I’m not going to die—by a fluke.”