It would be well, therefore, to think twice before embarking upon a fruitless treasure hunt after reading what has here been set down. It was the knowledge of the inevitable consequences that would result from incautious confidence that sealed Barraclough's lips and made his movements on arriving at Southampton so secretive. It is known there was a fog over the Solent on the afternoon in question and that a small brown-sailed boat with a man sitting in the stern put out from the shore and was presently swallowed up in the white tasselled wreaths of mist. That same boat was discovered minus its passenger in the early hours of the following day. A coastal collier, racketing into port in the quiet of evening, brought the tale of a seaplane that narrowly missed crashing into her deck house. Long after it was out of sight the crew heard its engines droning overhead. Then for a while there was silence during which a curious pinkish glow appeared to the starboard and died away. This glow was repeated three times and at the third repetition the waterplane engine was again audible, increasing in volume every moment. Presently it cut out and nothing was heard for several minutes. When it started again it must have been quite near at hand for the sound of water cut by the floats was detectable. The engines howled and whined until the roar diminished to a sound no greater than the buzzing of a bee fading into nothing over the wake of the little steamer. Whether or no these recorded circumstances have any bearing on the mystery of Anthony Barraclough's disappearance it would be impossible to say but the Harbour Authorities who were questioned as to whether they had knowledge of the movements of this particular waterplane replied with a regretful negative. They neither knew where it came from nor whither it went and there is a strong rumour that one or two quite important persons got into severe trouble for their want of information. The one thing that is positively known is that Barraclough arrived in and disappeared from Southampton in a single day, but whether he went North, South, East or West is a matter for speculation. PART II. CHAPTER 17. A DOUBTFUL ALLY. "That guy," said Ezra P. Hipps, "that guy is some stayer." Hugo Van Diest, from the deeps of a big arm chair, omitted a kind of rumbling affirmative. He was smoking a porcelain pipe enamelled with roses and forget-me-nots. His fat, short fingered hands were spread across the waistcoat of Berlin wool, his chin was sunk and his bearing that of a man who is out of humour. Gracefully disposed upon the hearthrug stood Oliver Laurence, an excellent advertisement for his tailor.