“What’s he up to?” said Tom Gale. “Don’t seem to know his way about arter all. If he drops anchor there he’ll drag for a certainty and get on the mud. Much better ha’ slipped back to Langham on the tide. Ah—I see.” For the yacht suddenly began to forge ahead, while a faint succession of thudding sounds came over the water. “One of them auxiliary oil engines, that’s it.” Gathering speed, the yacht came up the estuary, stemming the outflowing tide. Tom Gale could see two men on her now, one steering and the other stowing the sails. Presently she came up near the quay, slowing down a bit, and Tom Gale, looking down, could make out both men plainly. The one engaged in stowing the sails had moved forward and was getting the anchor ready. He was evidently a sailor, and wore dark blue trousers and a jersey, with a peaked cap on his head. The other was a man who looked about fifty years of age, with moustache and short, iron-grey beard. His face was much tanned by exposure to weather. He wore dark trousers, a short reefer jacket, and a yachtsman’s cap was tilted on the back of his head. As he passed beneath the schooner he looked up, caught Tom’s eye, and shouted: “Plenty of room round the quay?” “Plenty o’ room, sir,” answered Tom, “but stand out a bit to get round—it’s runnin’ a smart pace.” “I remember,” the other shouted back, with the air of one who was familiar with the estuary. Tom Gale slowly paced the deck of the schooner to get a better view aft. He watched the little craft draw up to her anchorage; she was a smart little boat, painted white, with a green line round her just below the bulwarks, and Tom’s practised eye saw that she had been painted quite recently. Abaft the raised cabin was a well, in which the steersman sat and controlled the engine, and the entrance to this cabin the doors of which were open, was from this well. Forward was a forecastle, evidently providing just room for a solitary “crew.” Tom Gale watched her as she came to her anchorage. In this pool, cut off, as it were, by the side of the quay, the water was scarcely affected by the flow of the tide. There was a splash as the anchor was heaved overboard, a rattle of the chain, and the yacht slowly swung to her moorings. The interest dwindled. Tom Gale pulled out a big silver watch. It was one o’clock. “Time for a pint, I reckon,” he murmured. Slowly and heavily he climbed over the bulwarks and walked along the quay to the “Mariner’s Arms.” A stout, pleasant-looking, rosy-cheeked woman was standing behind the little bar, polishing glasses. To her he nodded with the air of an old acquaintance, kept up by frequent visitations. “Gimme a pint, please, missus.” She drew it out of a big cask that stood on trestles behind the bar. “Weather keeps fine.” “Ah—not much to grumble at,” he replied as he counted out coppers. “Anyone in the parlour?” “Only the gentleman that’s staying here.” “Who’s he?” She shook her head.