Peter went down the steps and stood aside. The uninvited guest's boots clattered on the brass treads, his body enveloped in a leather motoring coat, from which the rain water ran in rivulets. He appeared to take up the whole width of the companion. Then, gaining the cabin, the stranger turned. "Beastly horrible night, isn't it?" he remarked. He was a pleasant-faced man of about thirty. To Craddock he appeared to resemble very strongly the confiding stranger who had "pumped" him on Aberstour pier. He might possibly be an elder brother, and if so was one of the gang of cocaine smugglers, the remainder of which was doing "time" in prison. Doubtless he had had the yacht under observation and, finding that there was only one of the crew on board, was bent upon taking vengeance upon the Sea Scout who had been instrumental in capturing the self-styled Scoutmaster Gregory. Those and a score of similar thoughts flashed across Peter's mind. He decided to act strictly upon the defensive until Mr. Grant returned. "Beastly horrible night, isn't it?" said the stranger again, as he removed his dripping coat. "Do you mind?" Peter took the proffered garment and hung it in the cupboard on the starboard side of the companion-ladder. Then he closed the sliding-hatch, leaving the cabin doors open. "Now we can have a cosy chat until Mr. Grant returns," continued the man, in no way offended by the Sea Scout's silence. "I'm anxious to meet you Sea Scouts, I've heard quite a lot about you. You're a set of plucky fellows." "Are we?" said Peter cautiously. "Aren't you?" rejoined the other, calmly seating himself on the settee on the starboard side, and thrusting out his legs. By so doing he had cut off Craddock's only means of getting out of the cabin, since the fore-hatch was closed and secured on the outside. "I suppose you had a hand in that little affair with your bogus Scoutmaster the other day?" Peter made no reply. "Modest about your achievement, eh?" laughed the stranger. "Very well, we'll change the subject. This is a fine little craft of yours. I'm a sailing man myself, when I can spare the time. As a matter of fact I was cruising off Aberstour about a week ago. _White Gull_ is the name of my craft. She's about eighty tons." "Straight-stemmed cutter, isn't she?" inquired Craddock, feeling that he must say something. "No, spoon bow." "Square stern?" "No, counter." "Oh!" exclaimed Peter involuntarily. The particulars as supplied by the talkative visitor coincided with those of the mysterious craft from which the _Puffin_ had received the consignment of contraband drugs. At that moment a red light gleamed through the port scuttle. The _Puffin_ lifted to a swell and ground heavily against the piles. "Steamer coming in," remarked the stranger. "She gave us a bit of a biff with her wash. I hope your warps are sound." "I'll go on deck and see," said Peter eagerly.