He took them in and gave them a brandy and soda each. When they came out again the news spread rapidly, and a group of men, women and children gathered on the shore and gazed at the yacht. Tom Gale came along the quay, munching the remains of his breakfast. Mr. Proctor nudged Jim Webb’s arm just as the latter was about to tell the story to an expectant audience. “If you’ll take my advice, my man,” he said, “you’ll say nothing. Wait till the police come, and let them take the lead.” Jim Webb accordingly lighted his pipe and remained dumb, much to the annoyance of the little crowds, the members of which began to speculate upon what had happened, and finally determined, to their great satisfaction, that Webb himself had committed the murder and that Mr. Proctor was keeping an eye upon him till the police arrived to arrest him. One of them even suggested to the latter: “Hadn’t we better lock him up in Mrs. Yates’s cellar, sir?” “Lock who up?” “Why, _him_,” pointing a condemnatory thumb over his shoulder at the unconscious Webb. “Lock yourself up for a silly fool,” retorted Mr. Proctor contemptuously. Presently a motor appeared dashing down the road. It was driven by the superintendent of the police. By his side was the doctor, and in the back seat a burly constable and a man in plain clothes. They all jumped out. Mr. Proctor, who was still in supreme command, addressed a few words to the superintendent. “You’ve done quite right, sir—quite right,” said the latter; “and now we’ll get on with things at once.” The superintendent was a quiet, refined-looking man, with a big black moustache. The man in plain clothes was of slight build, clean shaven, alert, and with shrewd grey eyes. “Now, sergeant,” said the superintendent, “you and I will go aboard with the doctor.” He went on, turning to the constable, “You stay here. We shall want you, my man,” he added, addressing Jim Webb. “What’s your name?” “Webb, sir.” “Told you so,” said the man who had been snubbed by Mr. Proctor. “They always confront ’em with their victims. Why don’t he put the handcuffs on him?” A boat was run down to the water, and Webb pulled them out to the yacht. The cabin was small. Webb, at the command of the superintendent, stayed outside, while the three men squeezed their way in. It was just the ordinary saloon of a small yacht. There was a bunk on either side, with lockers beneath and a folding-table, fixed to the floor, ran half-way down the centre. Huddled up to the floor, on his face, was the body of Reginald Templeton. The doctor went down on his knees by his side and made a careful investigation. “Stabbed in the back,” he said presently, “and whoever did it knew the right place—right through the heart, as far as I can see. He must have fallen just as he is, and died instantaneously.” “How long has he been dead?” asked the superintendent. The doctor went on with his examination, and consulted his watch.