Then the man on the bridge heard a smash and saw some splinters of glass fly from one of the ports. There were five tiny airholes in one of the doors, but four of these had been plugged with clay. Taking the cylinder, he smashed the nozzle end through the obstruction. A wild, desperate idea came to the harassed man. Reeder heard the starting wheel turn, and presently the low hum of machinery. He heard the patter of feet across the deck and peered through the porthole, but it was below the level of the bank. He looked round for a weapon but could find none. Of one thing he was certain: Mr. Red Robe would not dare to run for the river. There was quite enough traffic there for him to attract attention. He could not afford to wait for darkness to fall; his position was as desperate as Reeder’s own had been---- Bang! It was the sound of a pistol shot, followed by another. Reeder heard somebody shout, then the sound of a man crashing through the bushes. Then he heard the deep voice of Clive Desboyne. “Reeder… are you there? How are you?” Mr. Reeder, a slave to politeness, put his mouth up to the broken porthole. It was some time before Desboyne could knock off the padlock. Presently the door was opened and Mr. Reeder came out. “Thank God, you’re safe!” said the other breathlessly. “Who was the old bird who shot at me?” He pointed towards the place where the backwater turned. “Is there a house there or a road or something? That’s the way he went. What has happened?” Mr. Reeder was sitting on a little deck chair, his throbbing head between his hands. After a while he raised his face. “I have met the greatest criminal in the world,” he said solemnly. “He’s so clever that he’s alive. His name is Attymar!” Clive Desboyne opened his mouth in amazement. “Attymar? But he’s dead!” “I hope so,” said Mr. Reeder viciously, “but I have reason to know that he isn’t. No, no, young man, I won’t tell you what happened. I’m rather ashamed of myself. Anyway, I am not particularly proud of being caught by this”--he paused--“amateur. Why did you come?” “It was only by luck. I don’t know why I came. I happened to ’phone through to Twickenham about some repairs to the boat--by the way, you must have seen a picture of it hanging in my hall. In fact, it was in that picture where you were so smart as to tell the date. I lent the _Zaira_ at times; I lent it a few months ago to an Italian or Serbian fellow, but he so ill-used it that I sent a message that it was to be sent back to the yard. They telephoned along the river for news of it, and that’s when I learnt you were down here--you look rotten.” “I feel rotten,” said Mr. Reeder. “And you came----”