Absolutely disciplined, the Leading Hand obeyed orders promptly. Throwing back the aluminium cover in the centre of the cabin floor, he revealed to the gaze of the thoroughly terrified Jaures a rectangular opening six feet by four. Far below, glittering in the sunshine, was the blue Mediterranean. "Five seconds more!" announced Fosterdyke, calmly. Of the occupants of the after cabin Enrico Jaures now seemed to be the least interested in the proceedings. His furtive glances had given place to an expression of lofty detachment, as if he were utterly bored by the whole transaction. Bramsdean found himself deciding that either the fellow was an imbecile or else he was a past master in the art of dissimulation. "Time!" declared Fosterdyke. Enrico Jaures positively beamed. "Me no spik Englis," he babbled. Sir Reginald eyed the accused sternly, but even his piercing glance seemed of no avail. The Rock Scorp continued to smile inanely. "Take him away," ordered Fosterdyke with asperity. He waited till the door had closed upon the involuntary guest, and then gave a deprecatory shrug. "The fellow’s scored this time, Bramsdean," he remarked, "but I’ll get to windward of him yet." CHAPTER XI--"WITH INTENT" "Where are we now?" enquired Kenyon on returning to the navigation-room to relieve his chum as officer of the watch. It was now twelve o’clock. Bramsdean had just "shot the sun" and was reading off the degrees, minutes, and seconds from the arc of the sextant. "Almost over Algiers, old thing," he replied, pointing to the glaring, sun-baked Algerian coast. "Hark!" He held up his hand and inclined his head sideways. Above the bass hum of the aerial propellers came the distant report of a gun. "Reminds a fellow of old times when the Archies got busy," remarked Kenyon. "Our friends the French are evidently treating us to a salute to help us on our weary way," rejoined Peter. "Goodness only knows how we are to return it. We can’t give gun for gun." He focussed his glasses on the white buildings three thousand feet below. The whole of the water-front of Algiers was packed with figures with upturned faces--Frenchmen, Algerines, Arabs, and Nubians--all frantically waving to the huge airship as she sped eastwards. In ten minutes the "Golden Hind" had left the capital of France’s African possessions far astern. Unless anything untoward occurred, another four hours would bring her within sight of Malta. "You might cast your eye over the signal log-book before you take on," remarked Bramsdean.