“Things have gone very badly,” said the Tiger. “As Bittle said, Mr. Templar, you have beaten us. I bear you no malice. Perhaps it was ordained that it should end like this. You need not be afraid that I shall kill you, as that man would have done—that would be profitless. I might still have won, if I had had a fair chance, but the men I trusted double-crossed me. Now the ship is going down, and all my work is lost. I can fight no more. Fate has been against me from the beginning, and I am very tired.” He passed a hand across his eyes. The fatuous pose which went with the character of Algy Lomas-Coper had fallen from his shoulders like a discarded cloak, and it was an ordinary man who spoke. More than that, it was a broken man. There was something which filled the Saint with a sneaking sense of tragedy about this sudden transition from the effervescent Algy to the grim, weary figure of the Tiger facing the end. “But you——” The Tiger’s burning gaze raked over Bittle and Bloem and Maggs like a searing iron. Once again the Tiger’s voice took on that biting tang of steel, and the men cringed from the lash of it. “But you—you treacherous dogs, you perfidious scum, you abject rats, you shabby, contemptible, paltry vermin—against you I do bear malice. I came down to meet you on the quay—do you remember?—and you shot me down without a word. It was only a graze, but it stunned me, and to make sure you shot me again in the body as I lay there. I found the bullet afterwards and there was the bruise on my chest under my heart to prove it. But I always wear a bullet-proof waistcoat—you couldn’t know that. I lived, and swam out here with that girl to win back what was mine. I might have done it, but I am not such a good swimmer as I thought I was, and it took me a long time to recover after I got on board. So I only arrived in time to hear your speeches, Bittle, and hear Templar tell you how he had beaten you.” The Tiger looked out at the sea. “We are sinking quite slowly,” he said. “There will be plenty of time for all of you to put off in the boats. I mean _you_.” He looked around at the guard. “You at least are not traitors—you have simply obeyed the orders of these three men, and it was not your place to question them. I have no grudge against you. You are only the tools. You may go.” The men stared at each other and at the Tiger incredulously, as though they could not believe their ears. The Tiger stepped out of the doorway and waved them through, his lips curling contemptuously. One by one they crept furtively past him, and, as they gained the deck, made a rush for the companions to the boat level, casting fearful backward glances as though they expected him to repent of his decision and call them back. At last they had all gone. The Saint stood up and stretched himself, and the ropes fell away from his wrists and ankles. He even had time to enjoy and appreciate the sensation which his escape act caused to everyone present.