We went on down the sloping cobbled street. Presently it led us through the heart of the little town, where shuttered windows told of citizens asleep and only a zealous dog broke the silence. This until, as we were about to come out on the water front, from a high balcony stole the strains of a guitar. O’Shea paused, looking up. A dim light might be discerned. He glanced at me, smiled, and we passed on. Love is an art with the Southerners. I have wondered since, reviewing that journey, during which both our minds, I think, were busied with plans for boarding the motor boat and securing the incriminating photographs, that no premonition touched me. “Nanette had failed to keep Macalister,” I had said, noting the lighted cabin. Yet Nanette had dared to slip away from the _Arundel Castle_ and to remain alone in Funchal. I should have known my Nanette. Drawn up beside a quay, a red blotch in the moonlight, was a long-nosed French car. “Da Cunha’s Farman,” I exclaimed. “Macalister _is_ on board.” But O’Shea did not reply. He was starting out in the direction of the lighted craft, a thirty-eight-foot motor cruiser, very handy in smooth water but a dirty brute, I thought, in a choppy sea. Then: “I am wondering,” he murmured. “What?” “Why he is lying out there and not alongside? There is no boat at the stair.” At first, the full significance of his remark missed me. My concern was with the problem of how we were to find transport. Then, something in the quality of that fixed stare with which my companion watched the lighted ports, his poise, as if listening, prepared me for what was to come. The tones of a coarse voice, raised hilariously, reached my ears, coming from the cruiser’s cabin. A trill of laughter followed, youthful, musical. My heart missed a beat. I clutched O’Shea’s arm. “My God!” I said, “he has Nanette with him!” Involuntarily, my gaze went upward, to where in cold serenity the Moon of Madness raised her crescent lamp. O’Shea from the pocket of his light coat took a revolver. He placed it in his soft hat and crammed the hat tightly on his head. He began to peel his dinner jacket. “I’m going for a swim,” said he. “Coming?” But he was not alone in the idea. Before I could frame any reply came sounds of loud laughter, a scuffling of feet--and I saw Nanette run out on to the after-deck. She wore a blue-and-silver dance frock. I heard Macalister call to her and I heard her laughing answer; but I could not distinguish a word. I saw her raise her arms as though to unfasten the string of beads about her neck. She stooped swiftly, stood upright again--and Macalister was beside her. There was a shrill cry--half laughter, half hysteria. Nanette disappeared in the shadow of the awning. I heard the man’s voice, his heavy tread.… Nanette reappeared at the bow of the boat.