As it happened, poor Pam was sleeping rather heavily. She had had many restless nights, but something in those words of Miss Anne’s had made a difference. Things were not so hopelessly unjust; she did not feel so ill-used quite. So she slept soundly, and Hughie, moving like Sherlock Holmes and "Raffles" rolled into one, as only he could, got out of the house without a creak or a scratch, closed the door, and found himself on the end terrace under Pam’s window close to the sea-wall. Every stone being familiar, he went straight from there along the grass border of the walk, guiding himself by the wall. Once he stopped and listened intently, when he heard that little bump again--it was a slightly grinding bump at irregular intervals. Hughie knew now what it was--the dinghy against the rocks. It might mean that the little boat had got loose and was being shifted this way and that by the tide. There was nothing exciting about that, of course, but Hughie was convinced that something more was being enacted--there was human agency at work. He came to the end of the wall, went through the gate, round, and then down towards the rocks. Now here was necessity for careful going, because of the darkness, and he wished heartily he had stayed to get the little electric torch that stood on the library writing-table. However, knowing the bay by heart made it easier, and every minute his eyes were more used to the dark. The sand felt cool and hard; there was plenty of it, because the tide was just starting to rise steadily and creep into the pools. Hughie knew this must be so, of course--partly because he understood tides, but particularly in this instance owing to Adrian’s plan for the morning. They were to start early for Salterne, while there was still enough of the tide to take them. It could not have been long since the tide turned; he tried to calculate, and succeeded in realizing that the faint greyness that lay in the night was not "moon", but morning coming. And that was what made a chill, fresher than a night wind. Presently he found the dinghy, and felt all over her with understanding hands. The sculls were there--rolling a little, improperly placed. She was broadside on to the beach, heaving up a little on the wash. "She simply _never_ went down by herself," decided Hughie, and thought over the matter deeply. Her normal position was a good way up the shore. In stormy weather well above high-water mark--but last night in a comfortable position for loading a basket and oddments--on the sand, with her little anchor fixed between two rocks. The anchor had been lifted and was put in the bows. The dinghy could not have done that to herself! No need to argue; the question was answered.