“I agree with you, sir,” he said. “I endeavoured to persuade one of these gentlemen to play another nine holes--unsuccessfully, I regret to state.” Granet lit a cigarette. “Well,” he remarked, “it’s too far to get down to the links again but I’ll play you a game of bowls, if you like.” The other glanced out upon the lawn and rose to his feet. “It is an excellent suggestion,” he declared. “If you will give me five minutes to fetch my mackintosh and galoshes, it would interest me to see whether I have profited by the lessons I took in Scotland.” They met, a few moments later, in the garden. Mr. Collins threw the jack with great precision and they played an end during which his superiority was apparent. They strolled together across the lawn, well away now from the house. For the first time Granet dropped his careless tone. “What do you make of this change in the weather?” he asked quickly. “It’s just what they were waiting for,” the other replied. “What about this afternoon?” “I am not scientist, worse luck,” Granet replied impatiently, “but I saw enough to convince me that they’ve got the right idea. Sir Meyville thought I was the man commanding the escort they’ve given him,--actually rowed me out to the workshop and showed me the whole thing. I tell you I saw it just as you described it,--saw the bottom of the sea, even the colour of the seaweed, the holes in the rocks.” “And they’ve got the shells, too,” Collins muttered, “the shells that burst under water.” Granet looked around. They were playing the other end now. “Listen!” he said. They paused in the middle of the lawn. Granet held up his handkerchief and turned his cheek seaward. There was still little more than a floating breath of air but his cheek was covered with moisture. “I have everything ready,” he said. “Just before we go to bed to-night I shall swear that I hear an aeroplane. You’re sure your watch is right to the second, Collins?” “I am as sure that it is right,” the other replied grimly, “as I am that to-night you and I my young friend, are going to play with our lives a little more carelessly than with this china ball. A good throw, that I think,” he went on, measuring it with his eye carefully. “Come, my friend, you’ll have to improve. My Scotch practice is beginning to tell.” Geoffrey Anselman threw up the window and looked out. “Pretty hot stuff, isn’t he Ronnie?” he asked. Granet glanced at his opponent, with his bent shoulders, his hard face, hooked nose and thin gold spectacles. “Yes,” he admitted quietly, “he’s too good for me.” CHAPTER XXI At about half-past ten that evening, Granet suddenly threw down his cue in the middle of a game of billiards, and stood, for a moment, in a listening attitude. “Jove, I believe that’s an airship!” he exclaimed, and hurried out of the room.