Bittle sprang at the Boer like a wild beast, his face contorted with demoniac fury, and Bloem reeled back from a vicious blow. In an instant Bittle had grabbed a couple of revolvers, and was holding them threateningly in his quivering hands, and Bloem cowered sullenly back from the flaming passion that blazed in Bittle’s eyes. Bittle, in that towering paroxysm, would have murdered the other where he stood, given the slightest provocation, and the Boer knew it. “Search the ship!” Bittle shrilled. “You—all of you! Get out and search the ship!” “Why bother?” asked the Saint in his silkiest manner. “If you want to find Harry the Duke, my little ones, you’ll have to go all the way back to Baycombe!” Bittle swung round. “Meaning?” he prompted dangerously. “Meaning that when I’d dented old Bloem’s cranium, I went into the cabin and found Harry the Duke, _alias_ Agatha Girton,” said Simon. “We had quite a long chat. He told me how Agatha died years and years ago, at Hyères, and Harry took her place. The Tiger found him out—and that was another bad bloomer. You’d have thought any sane man would have been satisfied with a cool million; but no, the Tiger was so greedy he had to blackmail Harry for Miss Holm’s money, and that made Harry sore. Harry’s a dangerous man when he’s sore, and he tried to kill the Tiger. Then the Tiger saw what a mug he’d been, and decided to take Harry off on the cruise and dump him over the side with a couple of firebars spliced to his feet, which is a very effective way of killing a man and has the advantage that it leaves no incriminating corpses about. Harry was able to tell me quite a lot of interesting things about Tigers and Tiger Cubs. Then I told him a few things _he_ didn’t know, and after that we shook hands—he was really a sportsman, because he did try to put the kibosh on your hanky-panky with Miss Holm, whom he was rather fond of—and I let him slip over the side and swim back to Baycombe on condition he wrote an anonymous letter to Carn telling him all those things about Tigers and Tiger Cubs which we’d discussed.” The Saint looked almost apologetic. “And, therefore, one and only—thank God—Bittle, I can assure you that the police will come aboard with the pilot if you so much as show the tip of your bowsprit outside Cape Town harbour, and the Mounted will be camped all round T. T. Deeps in case you manage to sneak in by the back way. Rather upsetting, isn’t it?” “You at least, will not laugh much longer,” said Bittle, and put the muzzle of one of his revolvers in the Saint’s face.