Muhammed shook his head. The man grunted pessimistically, gave a surly little nod, and sat down behind the launch's steering wheel. A moment later he was grooving a white trail of foam out into the bay. Muhammed sighed--a sigh which expressed relief, content, and the expansion of a hitherto unleashed excitement. He turned and ran rapidly back along the shore. A second visit to the hovels below the blockhouse resulted in a conference with another of their deplorably clad inhabitants. A taciturn fellow this, of apparently Spanish extraction. But the fact that he wore the remains of an extremely dissolute _haik_ over a pair of remarkably tattered frieze trousers hinted at a cosmopolitanism which was buttressed by his speech. He used the _lingua franca_ and moved amid an almost palpable reek of garlic. After the exchange of a few rapid sentences, he relapsed into silence but not into inactivity. He paced solemnly down the sand and motioned the Moor to help in the launching of a boat. In it they pulled round the sweep of the bay into the inner port and moored themselves in the berthing which the motor launch had vacated. The dusk had now become darkness. Lights shone in the booths; the distressing clangor of a gramophone sounded from one _albergar_, the thrumming of a mandolin from another. There was a clink of spurs as half a score of artillerymen clattered down the citadel ramp, eager for the squalid debaucheries of the port. A _guardia civile_ sauntered along the quayside edge and looked down into the waiting boat. "Profitable evil-doing is surely at a low ebb when I find El Avispa trying to make an honest penny," he meditated. Muhammed's companion turned. "Why do you term me The Wasp, Señor?" he asked with a grin of complacence. "Have I been known to sting?" The _guardia_ made a jerky motion of his thumb in the direction of the great convict establishment upon the hill. "I don't know, _amigo_. Your exploits are scheduled up there; have a care that I do not need to refer to them. Whom do you await?" "The Señor and the Señora who landed from the yacht," said the boatmen. "They visit the Señor Intendente." The _guardia_ looked doubtful. "They landed from a boat, a motor boat," he objected. "Precisely," agreed the other. "It appears that something affected the engine of this, some leak of the jacketing which I do not understand, but which I am informed cools the cylinders. The engineer returned while he could, enlisting my services to await and explain matters to his employer." "Humph!" grunted the uniformed man. "His choice showed little discretion. See to it that you do not disgrace your opportunity. That seat is bespattered with fish-oil and scales. Wipe it!" He made a commanding gesture towards the offending stain, and walked majestically away.