The destroyer began to quiver gently to the purr of the turbines. Reggie cowered under the wind screen. The speed grew and grew and the destroyer sat down on her stern and on either side white waves rushed from the high sharp bow. “Who is your friend on the yacht?” the lieutenant smiled. “His last is attempted murder. But that was only this morning.” “You fellows don’t lose much time,” said the lieutenant with more respect. “You seem to want him bad.” “I could bear to see him,” said Reggie. “He interests me as a medical man.” “Medical?” the lieutenant stared at him. “Quite a lot of crime is medical,” said Reggie. The lieutenant gave it up and again asked for more speed and began to use his binoculars. “There’s a cutter rig,” he pointed at something invisible. “Not under sail. Laying a course for Flushing. That’s good enough, what?” The destroyer came up fast. A white hull was revealed to the naked eye. The lieutenant spoke to his signalman and flags fluttered above the bridge. “Not answered. D’ye think your friend’ll put up a scrap?” “I dare say he will, if his crew will stand for it.” “Praise God,” said the lieutenant. “Will they have any arms?” “Pistols, likely,” said Bell. “Well! She is _Cyrilla_.” He picked up a megaphone and roared through it. “The cutter! _Cyrilla!_ Stop your engine!” There was some movement on the yacht’s deck. She did stop her engine or slow. A shot was heard. She started her engine again and again stopped. A man ran aft and held up his hand. The destroyer drew abeam and the lieutenant said what occurred to him of yachts which did not obey Navy signals. There was no answer. A little knot of men on the _Cyrilla_ gazed at the destroyer. “You fellows going aboard her? Got guns? I’ll give you an armed boat’s crew.” Behind the destroyer’s sub-lieutenant Bell and Reggie came to the yacht’s deck. “Where’s the captain? Don’t you know enough to read signals?” Thus the sub-lieutenant began. “Where’s Mr. Kuyper?” said Bell. “We didn’t understand your signals, sir.” The captain licked his lips. “Don’t know anything about a Mr. Kuyper. We’ve got a Mr. Hotten, a Dutch gentleman. He’s my owner, as you might say.” “Where is he?” “Down the engine-room. It was him fired at the engineer to make him start her up again when I ’ad stopped. I laid him out with a spanner.” “Bring him up,” Bell said. A slim spruce body was laid on the deck, precisely the Julius Kuyper of Tommy Owen’s description. Reggie knelt down beside him. “He ain’t dead, is he?” said the yacht’s captain anxiously. But the stertorous breath of Mr. Kuyper could be heard. “My only aunt,” Reggie muttered. “What’s the matter, sir?” “Man hasn’t got a heart. This is very unusual. Good Lord! Heart well over on the right side. Heterotaxy very marked. Quite unusual. Ah! That’s more to the point. He’s had an operation on the thyroid gland. Yes. Just so.” He smiled happily. “What was that word you said, sir?”