Neither Smith nor the Russian had arrived yet. I could expect anything of Perutkin, but I knew that Smith was a model of punctuality and I wondered what had detained him. His instructions to me that evening were somewhat enigmatical. I could not help feeling that for the first time since the case started he was withholding something of import. Black figures glided past us--sailors and watchmen and all the dark crew of the dock, leaving or arriving at their posts. From far off we heard the melancholy crooning of a native love-song, punctuated by the harsh monotonous twanging of a guitar. I heard Rice say aloud: “What’s the matter with that launch? It’s late.” These were the first words above a whisper that I had heard from any of the four since my arrival. But Rice fell silent once more. I lit a match and consulted my watch. Then I looked toward the yacht once more and it seemed to me that the wind had risen. The waters below us began to swirl. I saw the _Mary Rose_ rock spasmodically. Rice looked up at the dark sky. He muttered something under his breath. Then we heard a taxi, and I could descry the figure of Smith rushing toward us. He apologized hurriedly for his tardiness, and was relieved to find that the launch had not yet started out. “Where’s the Russian?” I asked. “He’ll be around,” Smith said vaguely. Then he took a police whistle from his pocket and gave three shrill blasts. An answering siren from the yacht responded, as if the signal had been prearranged. Then we heard the faint chugging of the launch, growing steadily louder in our ears, and we could make out its shadowy outline as it chopped the angry waters. Without a word, the funeral party permitted itself to be helped aboard the launch by the crew of two. Smith and I were the last ones to leave the dock. The motor roared anew. I saw Rice looking up at the sky. “We’d better hurry,” he said. “This looks like a real storm coming.” “Oh, no,” said Smith reassuringly. “Just a bit of rain. I’ve lived around here for five years and I know a real storm when I see one.” I saw one of the sailors at his motor wink sardonically to the other at this. “Well, if there is a storm,” said Rice, “we’re going to turn back. Have to postpone it.” “No,” said Breese. “Don’t want to do that. I’ve got to go home tomorrow.” Rice looked doubtfully at him. But by this time the launch had drawn up alongside the _Mary Rose_, and we clambered out as best we could. The group of four proceeded immediately to the music-room, followed, at some distance, by the actor. Smith and I paced the deck. After a moment’s silence, Smith said, looking about carefully to make sure that he was not overheard: “I’m expecting things to happen tonight.” I felt a curious tingling of excitement. I begged for some inkling of his plans. But Smith shook his head. “Only thing for you to do is to wait and watch. No matter what happens, don’t worry.”