There was still the Recognised Military Authority to be dealt with. That official was urbanity personified. He did everything in his power to expedite matters, but red tape was stronger than gold lace. The loud report of a gun warned Fosterdyke and his companion that sunset had descended upon the Rock. The gates of the fortress were closed till sunrise. "Won’t affect you," explained the courteous official. "You can get back by the boat from the Old Mole. I won’t keep you very much longer. It really isn’t my fault." "Gibraltar was a bad choice of mine for a starting-point," observed Fosterdyke. "’Fraid so," agreed the other. "Ah, here we are. Thank you, Wilson. Where’s my fountain pen? Where’s---- Oh, dash it all, where’s everything? ... That’s settled, then. Have a drink before you go? No? Well, cheerio, and the very best of luck." Armed with the necessary documents, "sealed, signed, and delivered," Fosterdyke and Bramsdean found themselves in the open air. Darkness had already fallen. It was a good two miles from Little Europa Point to the Old Mole, and not a vehicle of any sort was to be seen. Tired, hot, and hungry they reached the spot where a naval pinnace was supposed to be awaiting them. It was not there. A message erroneously delivered had sent the boat back to the dockyard. Not to be done, Fosterdyke hired a native boat, paying without demur a villainous-looking Rock Scorp the excessive sum he demanded. For a quarter of an hour the boat rowed about while the baronet and his companion gazed aloft in the hope of spotting the "Golden Hind" against the dark sky. "She’s gone!" declared Bramsdean. "Nonsense!" exclaimed Fosterdyke, irritably. "Why should she?" Nevertheless in his mind he was convinced that such was the case. Presently the boat ran close to the buoy to which the airship had been moored. Both men recognised the buoy by the number painted on it. No wire rope ran upwards to an invisible object floating in the darkness of the night. Unaccountably, mysteriously the "Golden Hind" had disappeared. CHAPTER VIII--CAST ADRIFT Enrico Jaures, Spaniard on his father’s side and German on his mother’s, with a dash of almost every other Continental nation’s blood in his veins, lived or rather existed in a mean dwelling behind the King’s Bastion, on the west side of Gibraltar. Indolent, thriftless, and easy-going on the one hand, crafty and quarrelsome on the other, he possessed all the bad points that characterise the criminal classes of the two countries where his parents first saw the light. What he did for a living and how he earned money was a mystery even to his polyglot neighbours. Yet, without being well off, he appeared to be always "flush" with money.