"I don't understand anything," I said. "All I know is the surface of the situation. But that gentle villain who saw us off the yawl said that they were sailing at high water--only waiting until the tide was deep on the bar outside there. And they could get a long way, north or south or east, before we could set anybody on to them. Supposing they did get rid of Baxter and his Frenchman, what's to prevent them making off across the North Sea to, say, some port in the north of Russia? They've got stuff on board that would be saleable anywhere--no doubt they'll have melted it all into shapeless lumps before many hours are out." Once more she was silent, and when she spoke again it was in a note of decision. "No, I don't think that's it at all," she said emphatically. "They're dependent on wind and weather, and the seas aren't so wide, but that they'd be caught on our information. I'm sure that isn't it." "What is it, then?" I asked. "I've a sort of vague, misty idea," she answered, with a laugh that was plainly intended to be deprecatory of her own power. "Supposing these Chinese--you say they're awfully keen and astute--supposing they've got a plot amongst themselves for handing Baxter and the Frenchman over to the police--the authorities--with their plunder? Do you see?" I had just finished the manufacture of my novel foot-wear, and I jumped to my padded feet with an exclamation that--this time--did not come from unpleasant contact with the sharp stones. "By George!" I said. "There is an idea in that!--there may be something in it!" "We thought Wing was on board," she continued. "If so, I think I may be right in offering such a suggestion. Supposing that Wing came across these people when he went to London; took service with them in the hope of getting at their secret; supposing he's induced the other Chinese to secure Baxter and the Frenchman--that, in short, he's been playing the part of detective? Wouldn't that explain why they sent us away?" "Partly--yes, perhaps wholly," I said, struggling with this new idea. "But--where and when and how do they intend--if your theory's correct--to do the handing over?" "That's surely easy enough," she replied quickly. "There's nothing to do but sail the yawl into say Berwick harbour and call the police aboard. A very, very easy matter!" "I wonder if it is so?" I answered, musingly. "It might be--but if we stay here until it's light and the tide's up, we shall see which way the yawl goes." "It's high water between five and six o'clock," she remarked. "Anyway, it was between four and five yesterday morning at Ravensdene Court--which now seems to be far away, in some other world." "Hungry?" I asked. "Not a bit," she answered. "But--it's a long way since yesterday afternoon. We've seen things." "We've certainly seen Mr. Netherfield Baxter," I observed. "A fascinating man!" she said, with a laugh. "The sort of man--under other circumstances--one would like to have to dinner."