It opened to a larger pool, a sort of backwater. Passing a clump of bushes, he came suddenly upon the boat. The bow lay almost within reach of his hand. It was tied up fore and aft and had a deserted appearance. Across the forepart of the boat was drawn a canvas cover, but he was prepared for this by the description of the boat-builder. Mr. Reeder slipped his hand in his pocket and went cautiously along the length of the boat. He noted that all the portholes were not only closed but made opaque with brown paper. “Is anybody there?” he called loudly. There was no answer. In midstream a moorhen was paddling aimlessly; the sound of his voice sent it scurrying to cover. The foremost part of the ship was evidently the engine room, and possibly accommodation for a small crew. The living saloon was aft. It was these that had their portholes covered. Both cabins were approached from the well deck amidships, and he saw here a canvas-covered wheel. The doors were padlocked on the outside. Mr. Reeder looked around, and stepped on to the boat down a short ladder to the well. He tried the padlock on the saloon door. It was fast; but it was a very simple padlock, and if fortune favoured him, and the boat he sought was really discovered, he had prepared for such an emergency as this. He tried three of the keys which he took from his pocket before the lock snapped back. He unfastened the hasp, turned the handle and pulled open the door. He could see nothing for a moment; then he switched on an electric hand-lamp and sent its rays into the interior. The saloon was empty. The floor of it lay possibly eighteen inches below the level of the deck on which he was standing. And then.… Lying in the middle of the floor, and glittering in the light of his lamp, was a white-handled, silver-plated revolver. “Very interesting,” said Mr. Reeder, and went down into the saloon. He reached the bottom of the steps and turned, walking backwards with his face to the door through which he had come, the muzzle of his Browning covering the opening. Presently his heel kicked the pistol. He took another step back and stooped to pick it up.… CHAPTER VIII Mr. Reeder was conscious of a headache and that the light shining in his eyes was painful. It was a tiny globe which burned in the roof of the cabin. Somebody was talking very distressedly; the falsetto voices Mr. Reeder loathed. His senses came back gradually. He was shocked to find himself one of the figures in a most fantastical scene; something which did not belong to the great world of reality in which he lived and had his being. He was part of an episode, torn bodily from a most imaginative and impossible work of fiction.