“Detective-Inspector Carn, of Scotland Yard—that old fool. He went into Ilfracombe this afternoon to collect his posse. He knows the Tiger! . . . They must have had a breakdown somewhere, and that stopped him arriving in time—but that only means that by dawn the Atlantic fleet will be scouring the seas for you. I’ll bet that surprises you, Bittle!” She spoke in quiet, even tones, and the certainty that she wasn’t bluffing hit Bittle between the eyes like the kick of a mule. He bent and stared closely into her face, but she looked back at him without faltering. Incredulously, he searched for the least hint of wavering in her gaze, but found only a mocking amusement. Conviction forced itself upon him against his will. “D’you mean to say Carn’s a detective?” he said thickly. “I do.” Every syllable was a taunt. “And d’you mean to say the Tiger—that old fool—has had Carn living next door for months and never suspected him? . . . Really, you seem to be a very stupid lot!” His face darkened, and for a moment she thought he would strike her. There was murder in his eyes. Then he controlled himself, but he stepped back as though he had received a blow. “Thank you for warning me—I’ll be ready for them,” he rasped. “But you—you’ll never share the laugh. While I’ve got you for a hostage they won’t dare to touch me. You’ll save us all, my beauty!” “My good man,” retorted Patricia, with that glacial scorn which treated him as an offending flunkey—“I wouldn’t lift a finger to help you if you were roasting in Hell.” He bared his teeth. “You’ll change your mind when I set out to make you,” he said. He flung open the door. “Bloem!” He waited, fuming, and then bellowed again: “Bloem! . . . _Bloem_—you blasted Dutchman! . . . Here, you, go and find Mr. Bloem and tell him I want to see him at once. Run!” He slammed the door again and glowered down at her. “My girl,” he said venomously, “you’re going to be sorry you didn’t accept my offer the night I made it!” “My man,” she answered, “your humiliation will always be one of the pleasantest memories of my life.” “It’ll be one of the last,” he vowed. He leaned on the door with tightly folded arms, glaring at her evilly, but after one glance of superb disdain she went on smoking and ignored him. The interval was a long one, and his cursing impatience raged higher with every minute of it. At last a man came across the deck and knocked on the door. Bittle jerked it open, and let out an exclamation. “What the blazes——” “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t find Mr. Bloem.” “Can’t find him? You lazy swine—you haven’t looked! The ship’s small enough, isn’t it? What in Hell d’you mean?—can’t find him!” “Gawd’s truth, sir. I looked everywhere, and Lopez and Abbot ’ve bin ’elping me. Mr. Bloem doesn’t seem to be on board.” “Mr. Bloem is on board,” snarled Bittle. “Go and look again—and don’t come to me with any more excuses like that.”