They were off—the Tiger had scooped the pool. . . . The girl sank on to the bunk and covered her eyes in that moment she tasted the dregs of defeat. Bittle came down from the bridge. He went to the door of the other cabin and thumped on the panels. He shouted “Maggs!” several times, without, apparently, getting a reply. Then he crossed the deck and she heard his key in the lock. She had composed herself by the time he had opened the door. He met the same acid, defiant stare, and felt a certain admiration. “Still just as sure of yourself?” he asked, and she nodded. “Quite—thank you.” He eyed her twistedly. “You’re plucky, but I’m afraid it’s wasted. You know Templar’s dead?” “Mr. Templar’s dead—yes. But the game goes on.” She looked up at him steadily. “Even I may die. But there are others—you will never be able to say you’re safe as long as there is a law, and decent people to fight for it. For a little while, you’re winning, but in the end you can’t win. Mr. Templar, after all, was only a pawn, and I’m no more than that myself. But even though you kill both of us, there are plenty of others to take our places—men who will never rest until they have led you to the gallows. Think of it, Bittle! Years will pass, and you will travel thousands of miles; perhaps you will change your name, and settle down at the other end of the earth; you will play your part, make yourself a respected and important man with all this money, and try to believe that the past can be forgotten. But in your heart you will know that nothing can be wiped out, and you will always be haunted by your fear. If you call that a victory, Bittle, you’ve won—but I wouldn’t change places with you!” He was not impressed. “D’you really think you can scare me so easily?” he said. “If you like, you can come out on deck and watch England fall behind us. You will never see England again—we have vanished into thin air, for all Baycombe knows. Only one dangerous man has been left, and by now he will have been shot—Templar’s servant. Where is help coming from?” “When did you shoot Orace?” she inquired. “He was very much alive when I left him.” She was wondering if Orace had, after all, been captured, but she was giving nothing away until she knew, and Bittle’s reply reassured her. “The Pill Box will be raided at two o’clock, and Orace will be killed—that has been arranged.” “Then you might give me a cigarette.” He proffered his case and watched her tap the gasper on her thumbnail, and he marked that her hands did not shake. “And a match, please.” He held the light for her, and then she leaned back again and puffed a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling. “Have you also arranged to kill Carn?” she questioned. “Carn—that old fool? Why?”