Claggett Chew did not reply nor rise to fetch another bottle. Osterbridge Hawsey gave a hiccup and spoke again, "Mark it--hic!--Claggett. You may forget. All those--hup!--walls, to get over, or--hic! under." He sighed. "Oh dear! Hic! _Think_ of those jewels, Claggett! Hup! Devil take these hiccups!" he exclaimed in a flurry of annoyance, but made no motion to change his comfortable position. "Claggett!" Osterbridge Hawsey shrilled. "Are you asleep, or angry, or--? Hic!--Put a cross where the Tree is, I say! I want those--hup!--jewels, Claggett, and so do you! Hic!" Befuddled, his perceptions hopelessly blurred by excessive wine, Claggett Chew made a mark on the map. "There!" he growled, his upper lip drawn back over his teeth, "will that shut you up?" A moving shadow duskier than the shadows themselves came through the door and hovered over Osterbridge Hawsey. Claggett Chew suddenly started up. "I smell him!" he muttered thickly. "He's here! Hullo! Night watchman!" he shouted drunkenly. As he got up, stumbling and thrashing about in the uncertainty of his movements, his chair crashed to the floor and the monkey made a leap, cuffing the lantern from its hook. The light was dashed out, and in the dark as he jumped, the monkey seized the creased, well-thumbed paper as he leaped back toward the pale square that was the window. Behind it Claggett Chew's oaths and exclamations became fainter as the spicy scent grew stronger, and at last his mutterings trailed off into snorts and, finally, snores. The monkey, clutching the paper to itself, sat on the window ledge stuffing it into the pouch about its neck, and a monkey smile flitted across its face as it heard a final dreaming sound from Osterbridge Hawsey. "Hm-mm. Hic! Jewels! Hup!" came from Osterbridge Hawsey. Down the anchor rope scrambled the monkey with the agility and speed for which monkeys are famous. Mr. Wicker was already in the boat. "How shall it be, sir?" came the low voice of Chris. "Shall I become a beaver and go down and gnaw the rope off at the anchor?" "No," said Mr. Wicker. "It can be more easily done than that and nothing to trace it. Get in the boat. Here comes the _Mirabelle_." Taking his own shape once more, Chris saw the white ghost-like sides of the _Mirabelle_ soundlessly passing down stream. Not a creak nor a splash of water came from her as she passed, but from the stern a tiny light, struck by a flint perhaps, blinked once, and twice, and then a third time. "Now!" came Mr. Wicker's low voice. "Let me have my hand upon that rope!" He only seemed to hold the anchor rope a moment and give it an easy pull. The tugging strain was suddenly gone and the _Venture_ veered away like a frightened waterfowl. "Will she go where she should, sir?" Chris wanted to know, leaning forward.