I heard footsteps behind us, and I swung around quickly. I gaped at Perutkin--in the half light--a new Perutkin, resplendent in morning coat and top-hat and white gloves that almost gleamed silver in the night. In one hand he held a gold-tipped stick, which he swung with a swagger. “All is ready,” he announced. As if the yacht were awaiting his command, I heard the heavy rattle of chains as the anchor was drawn up. Then the engines throbbed and the dock receded. We heard the deafening peal of thunder that makes a tropical storm so frightful. Lightning raced across the black sky. The yacht rose upon the waves, and we felt a sudden drenching rain upon our faces. We beat a hasty retreat to the cabin corridor for protection. I heard the Russian chuckling, and as he came into the corridor, he pointed to the pouring sky. “My partner!” he cried. I could only stare at him, puzzled. A member of the crew darted past us. We heard him slamming the deck doors and battering them shut. “Time to see the Captain,” Smith said. He was as puzzling to me as was the Russian. “Yes,” chuckled the Russian. “You’ll find him an excellent fellow. I’ve been dining very well with him. He’ll coöperate, I assure you.” Smith nodded and left us. The Russian paced up and down, rubbing his hands delightedly, looking at me with a playful grin and chuckling in high good humor. His smile did not leave him when he saw Rice emerge from the music-room, a frown upon his ordinarily placid face. “We’ll have to turn back,” Rice said to me. “It’s a bad enough business for the family without this storm.” “But, surely,” said the Russian, “you will not disobey the strict injunctions of Mrs. Breese. It was, so to speak, her dying wish. Three days after her death she specified.” “Mrs. Breese,” retorted Rice, “wouldn’t want to make her family and friends miserable. She didn’t know about this storm.” “It would look very bad in the newspapers,” the Russian shook his head doubtfully. He turned to me, “Don’t you think so?” And before I could reply, “But why do I ask? We have just been discussing that,” he lied glibly, “and you yourself made that point.” “I can’t help it,” snapped Rice. “We’re turning back.” He strode past us. When he had gone, the Russian laughed. “And I would be willing to wager that we are not,” he said. But whatever the private joke of the Russian (which Smith evidently shared) I could not quite appreciate its humor. The yacht rolled unmercifully, and although I am a fairly good sailor, I do not enjoy being pitched about. Outside, the wind assumed the proportions, it seemed to me, of a cyclone, although the Russian laughed at the comparison. “Why, this is excellent weather!” he exclaimed cheerfully, sitting down upon the leather bench beside me, and holding his top-hat carefully against his breast. “A little blow like this means nothing--nothing at all.”