Even as he looked at the unfortunate Aberdeen, a swell threshed sullenly against the evil-smelling mud and lifted the dog's body a couple of feet or so nearer the weed-covered piles. A steamer had just passed--a tramp, outward bound, with the name _Zug_--Malmo, on her stumpy counter. CHAPTER VIII The "Titania" Sails Filled with the deepest apprehensions concerning the fate of his chum, Bobby Beverley was not content to think. He acted. As it was yet early in the morning, and a Sunday, there were no signs of activity in the yacht-yard. The night watchman, his duties over with the rising of the sun, had taken himself home; the watchkeepers on board the various craft were still sleeping soundly in the knowledge that there was no pressing need for them to turn out. Slipping over the side, Beverley gained the wharf. There were no signs of a struggle, and the hoar-frost that covered the tarred planking was destitute of human or canine foot-prints. Only a number of triangular marks on the white covering showed that sea-birds had been waddling about the jetty. Suddenly Beverley caught sight of a crumpled paper that had wedged in a projection of a heap of rusty iron. It was the telegraph-form that Villiers had gone ashore to receive when he was struck down by a cowardly blow. On it were the words:-- "Harborough, yacht _Titania_. Cannot keep appointment Monday. Will Tuesday same time suit? "Heatherington." "H'm; no postmark," commented Bobby. "Looks like a plant. Wonder if this has anything to do with Villiers' absence?" Folding the crumpled paper, Beverley placed it carefully in his pocket-book. Then, making his way across the encumbered yard, he stopped outside the manager's office. As he expected, the door was locked securely, but Beverley was not going to stick at trifles. With a piece of iron-bar he deliberately smashed a pane of glass. Then inserting his hand through the jagged pane he shot back the window-catch. It was then an easy matter to gain admittance. He lifted the receiver of the telephone, and in less than a minute and a half he had secured a trunk-call to Thalassa Towers. "Hallo!" exclaimed a faint and indistinct voice. "That Harborough?" inquired Bobby. "Beverley speaking." "No, I'm Claverhouse, old bean," was the reply. "Why this activity on the Sabbath morn? Anything wrong?" "Yes," replied Beverley. "Jack's missing--Jack Villiers. Eh? what's that? No, I didn't say--Oh! Dash it all, they've cut me off." He replaced the receiver and again rang up the exchange, demanding peremptorily why the interruption had occurred. "You must have cut yourself off," replied the operator. "Stand by." Bobby "stood by" for another five minutes--minutes that passed with leaden feet. "There's no reply," came the matter-of-fact voice of the exchange operator. "This is Andover speaking."