Dick produced the keys; a large jack-knife, a catapult, and a piece of whip-cord were disclosed during the operation. "You had better let me have that catapult," observed the house-master. "I cannot conceive why you should want to take a thing like that away with you, especially as the possession of a catapult is an offence against the rules of the school." Beverley junior surrendered the catapult cheerfully. After all it was one of three that he carried about his person. Ten minutes later Mr. Jaques and Dick parted company on board the cross-Channel steamer, the former to return with a feeling that he had carried out a duty conscientiously, the latter realizing at last that he was actually on the threshold of a big adventure. Dick remained on deck. Even the strong desire to go below, to see if he could prevail upon the engineer to allow him to enter the engine-room, was not enough to tear him from the sight of the receding shores of Kent and the constant stream of shipping passing to and fro on one of the main arteries of the world's maritime trade. He was a high-spirited youth, no better and no worse than the average British schoolboy. He had received his colours at "footer", was a moderate bat, could swim and box, and could ride almost any make of motor-cycle and understand its mechanism as well. True, he hadn't a motor-bike of his own, for the simple reason that funds wouldn't run to it, but his unfailing good nature and ability to undertake repairing jobs were sufficient to give him the run of the majority of motor-cycles belonging to his fellow-boarders. Normally he was open and inclined to be communicative, but, with Mr. Jaques' warning somewhere in the back of his brain, it was not surprising that he showed a tendency to "choke off" an attempt at conversation on the part of a fellow-passenger on the Folkestone-Boulogne boat. "Your name's Beverley, isn't it?" inquired the stranger. Dick had noticed him in the foyer of the hotel. "Yes," he replied shortly. "He can see that by reading the labels on my luggage," he added mentally. "I know your father," continued the stranger. "My name's Wilson." "Really," rejoined Dick. "You didn't speak to him in the hotel, did you?" "No," was the answer, after a moment's hesitation. "I saw you were both talking very earnestly, and naturally one doesn't like to butt in on the eve of parting." Dick considered. Either the "old buffer" had made a genuine mistake or else he was trying to "pump him". Possibly the latter. "I'm going as far as Brindisi to meet my daughter from Egypt," continued Mr. Wilson. "You are going farther, I see?" "Yes, to Taranto," replied Dick. "Cruising in the Mediterranean." "Then you are one of the _Titania's_ party." "Am I?" rejoined the lad. The stranger smiled. "Of course you are," he said. "And you are going farther than the Mediterranean, I believe."