“Yes,” O’Shea replied, “thanks to you, Nanette! Only the Bolsheviks knew so much about our trouble in that camp as Slattery confided to you!” He turned to me. “I acted on that slender clue, Decies. The name of a company sergeant-major--and I was right! The _real_ Captain Slattery is in hospital at Ladysmith!” “Good God!” said I. “Then this man----” “Is Adolf Zara! I told you he was dangerously clever!” Then, muffled, ghostly, it reached our ears on the boat-deck--that most thrilling of all sea cries: “Man overboard!” Already the ship’s engines were running dead slow. Now they were rung off. Helter-skelter we went hounding after O’Shea--to Slattery’s stateroom. It was empty. One of the lifebelts was missing. Out in the fog, that queer high siren note persisted. I thought of the white motor boat--and of Slattery’s radio message. O’Shea fixed his monocle in place. The sleeping ship was awakening to a growing pandemonium. “Have you a cigarette, Decies?” he said. “I have smoked all mine. It needs a brave man to do what Adolf Zara has done to-night. If ever I have the pleasure of meeting Captain Slattery again, I shall tell him so.” CHAPTER XXI. A MISSING PICTURE “Oh, I say!” cried Jack. “This is topping!” His admiring gaze was set upon a photograph in my portfolio of Madeira snapshots. It represented a slender girl, arms raised, poised in the act of diving from a rock into the clear water below. In justice to the beauty of the model and not out of any desire to fan my artistic vanity, I agreed with Jack. The original of the study, seated on the edge of a table, slim legs swinging restlessly, surveyed the work with less enthusiasm. “I look painfully bare,” said Nanette severely. “Can I have a copy, Decies?” Jack asked. “Please say no,” came promptly from Nanette. “If you want a photograph, Jack, I had several good ones taken in Switzerland.” We examined other items of my collection. “Hallo!” said Jack. “Who is the sportsman with the toothy smile?” He was frowning at a snapshot of Nanette coiled up in a deck chair. Seated very near to her, in smiling tête-à-tête, was a man whose white sun helmet cast a dark shadow upon his features. “Captain Slattery,” Nanette replied. “You don’t know him, Jack.” She turned over the print, giving me a swift glance. Its full significance rather missed me at the time. I merely supposed that this picture of the man we had known as “Captain Slattery” conjured up memories of O’Shea. And memories of O’Shea almost invariably brought about sudden changes of mood in little Nanette. Later, however, having induced Jack to telephone to somebody about something or another, she drew me aside. “Captain Slattery is in London!” she said, speaking with suppressed excitement. “This was what I really came to tell you.” “What!” I exclaimed.