A friendly puff of wind from the South East filled the canvas and drove them shoreward at a slant, the water lapping gently against the bows. It seemed a very little while before they rounded the headland and entered the narrow funnel of cliffs leading into Polperro. Not a soul was to be seen at the breakwater, a circumstance Barraclough noted with satisfaction, although he had no reason to expect opposition. They lowered sail at the harbour mouth and came alongside a slippery wooden ladder stapled into the stone wall of the pier. "Ye'll take a bite o' breakwus?" "Not this journey, Jack. I'm getting off as fast as I can. Here, you'd better freeze on to these oil skins. No good to me." He stripped off the coat he was wearing, shook hands, and mounted the ladder. "Thanks awfully. I'll be down this way for my honeymoon. Good-bye." With a cheery wave and a smile he started down the jetty at a brisk walk. CHAPTER 23. AN ENCOUNTER. Anyone who is acquainted with the village of Polperro knows the stone jetty which runs parallel with the horizon line of the sea. In length it is perhaps eighty or a hundred yards. At its Western end it turns at right angles past a terrace of old houses whose foundations are washed by the tide. Barraclough had almost arrived at this point when two men turned the corner and came toward him. One was a presentable enough fellow, but his companion was a person of low class. They were obviously in the heart of an altercation for the words, "You fill yourself up with beer like a blasted barrel," preceded their appearance. Now there was one thing Barraclough never forgot--a man's voice--and as the words came to his ears he stopped dead. The moment of mutual recognition was almost instantaneous, but Barraclough had precisely one second's start to recover from his surprise. Behind him was the jetty surrounded by the sea, and the narrow passage in front was blocked by enemies. Harrison Smith wasted a fraction of time crying out the name "Barraclough!" Dirk fell back a pace fumbling for the pocket in which he kept his "Mascot." It was a fatal mistake. Running down the length of the jetty between the two men was a fisherman's net, and as Harrison Smith sprang toward him pistol in hand, Barraclough ducked, seized the net and raised it in the air.