Wait for five or six weeks till the vessel arrived at Singapore! What would Marigold think? What was she thinking now? He was, of course, in ignorance of those cleverly worded and reassuring telegrams. "Can’t I get a message ashore anyhow—by signal to one of Lloyd’s stations?" he begged. "No, you can’t, for we’re going straight out. Usually we go up the Mediterranean and through the Canal, but this trip we’re going round the Cape." "But surely you will allow me to communicate with my friends, captain!" he urged in distress. "You certainly could if we had orders to put in anywhere. But we haven’t. I can’t send a letter to my missus, for instance. She’ll know of our arrival at Singapore because the owners will send her a line, as they always do." "All this is maddening!" declared Durrant, angrily stamping his foot. "Yes, Morton said you were a bit eccentric, and it seems that you are!" remarked Bowden, taking down his shiny black oilskin which had borne the brunt of many a storm. "I must go on the bridge—or Hutton will be cursing," he added. "Get your oilskin—you’ve got one in your cabin—and go and have a blow on deck. It will do you good—blow out the cobwebs, and freshen up your memory a bit." Gerald returned to his cabin and found a black oilskin hanging behind the door. He put it on and, taking an old golf cap, ascended the hatchway to the deck, which was, ever and anon, being drenched with salt spray. A glance around showed the _Pentyrch_ to be a dirty old tramp, which was loping along in the teeth of a northerly gale. "See yonder!" exclaimed the captain, pointing to a little line of land. "That’s the last bit of Europe we’ll see! To-morrow the weather will be a lot better. Have a look round the ship before dinner. And don’t you trouble about that marvellous plot against you. There’s nothing at all in it—take it from me! Your friends are all aware of your hallucinations, and they are much pained by them. So just keep quiet—and rest all you can." While Bowden ascended to the bridge to relieve the first mate, Gerald explored the ship. He came across one or two rough sailors, who either wished him a sullen "Good-day," or stared at him as though he were some new species. As a matter of fact, Bowden had given it out to the crew that their passenger was an eccentric, but harmless young man, who was labouring under the delusion that an attempt had been made to kill him. Hence the men’s curiosity. Gerald Durrant was unused to the sea, and in his present unstrung condition, he was indeed scarcely responsible for his actions. But what the captain had told him had astounded him. The description of his mysterious "friend" Morton—a man who was evidently his enemy—certainly did not tally with that of Bernard Boyne. Yet he could not erase from his mind the suspicion that Boyne had had a hand in that plot by which he had been carried away from London—just at a moment when his presence there was so much needed.