The Cuban's hat leaped from his head and fluttered slowly to the ground, a bullet-hole through the crown. Manuel stared at it, his jaw dropping. "White man----" the preacher began. The Cuban took no heed. The shot, he figured, could have come from no one but the negro in the boat, and he wheeled on him, flashing his revolver. As he turned to the sea, however, he saw a motor boat coming at terrific speed into the harbor. He took one glance at it. "We've got to get rid of the boy before he comes!" he cried. Leborge, with a wide grin, gave a nod of approval, and Manuel's gun came slowly to the shoulder, for cat-like, he wanted to torture the boy before he fired. Quicker than his grave manner would have seemed to forecast, the preacher stepped fairly between the Cuban and his victim. "De Good Book say----" he began, but Manuel gave him a push. There was a slight struggle and a flash. The preacher fell. Manuel turned on Stuart, who had tried to catch the falling man, forgetting for the instant that his hands were tied. He stumbled, and the pistol centered on his heart. Came another, "Spat!" A shrill scream rang out. Manuel's gun fell to the ground, suddenly reddened with blood. The Cuban's hand had been shot through. Clumsily kneeling, Stuart put his ear to the wounded man's heart. It was beating strongly. The bullet seemed to have struck the collar bone and glanced off, stunning the nerves, but not doing serious injury. For a moment, the four men stood dazed. Whence came these bullets that made no sound? Could the Englishman be shooting? They stared out to sea. The "chug-chug" of the motor boat was deafening, now. It stopped, suddenly, and, standing in the bow, the figure of Cecil could be plainly seen. He held no gun in his hand, however. Never was the Englishman's quiet power more strongly shown than in the fact that, in this tense moment, the conspirators waited till he landed. Leborge shuffled his feet uneasily. Manuel, his face twisted with pain, and holding his wounded arm, glared at his fellow-conspirator, undauntedly. "My friend," said Cecil to him, calmly, "I have many times instructed you that nothing is to be done until I give the word." The Cuban cursed, but made no other answer. "As for you," the Englishman continued, turning to Leborge, "I have told you before that the time to quarrel about the sharing of the spoils was after the spoils were won. Why have you posted men to murder Manuel and me, in the granadilla wood, between here and Cap Haitien?" The giant would have liked to lie, but Cecil's determined gaze was full on him, and he flinched beneath it, as a wild beast flinches before its tamer. "If you had waited for me," the calm voice went on, "I might have helped you to escape, but now----" He raised his hat and passed his hand over his hair, as though the sun had given him a headache.