Then the unlucky thing happened. He caught his foot in a low post, and went sprawling on the stones with a crash that rang out in the still night. Colson swore roundly beneath his breath, picked himself up, and rushed to the water’s edge. He knew he was discovered. Then, to his dismay, he heard the splash of the paddle and could just see the canoe shooting out beyond the yacht into the estuary. He rushed for one of the other canoes, whipped out his knife, cut the painter, and pushed her into the water. But as he stepped in he swore again. “Confound my luck,” he muttered; “there’s no paddle. _That’s_ what he was up to.” Looking out over the estuary, he saw the dim form of the canoe and its occupant rapidly shooting up with the tide towards Frattenbury. By the time he had found the paddle—thrown on the grass thirty yards away or so—it was too late. The tide was running like a mill-stream. Again cursing his bad luck, he paused for a minute to reflect. What could he do? Nothing. The man might land on either bank, or at the extremity of the estuary—anywhere. For a moment he thought of mounting his bicycle, but the only road it was possible to ride was round by Frattenbury. To attempt to follow up by running along the side of the estuary in such a dark night would be equally fruitless for fast going. The canoe would be running up that tide race with great speed, and the occupant had every chance of escaping. Marsh Quay had neither telephone nor telegraph; it was impossible to head him off by sending a message to the Frattenbury police. Colson shook his fist at the estuary, a disappointed man. To make quite sure that the unknown had come for the walking-stick he paddled out to the dinghy. It was a foregone conclusion. There was no stick there. He returned to the inn. There was nothing more to be done. “There’s one thing, though,” he said as he undressed; “I’ve got the original stick still, _and he doesn’t know it_. That’s a point to me, and it may mean that I’ll have him yet.” Colson was one of those fortunate individuals who can do with very little sleep. He woke at an early hour, fresh and alert. He glanced out of the window as he was dressing. The tide was on the ebb. A canoe was out in mid-stream, a man in her paddling down from the upper reach. As he drew nearer and began to turn towards the shore, the detective recognised him. It was Mr. Proctor. Hastily Colson slipped on the rest of his clothes, and was on the shore just as Mr. Proctor came in. The detective pursed up his lips as he recognised the canoe. It was the one in which the unknown had made his escape in the night. Proctor was the first to speak as he stepped ashore. He smiled and nodded affably. “Good morning,” he said. “You’re an early bird, Mr. Colson.” “So are you,” retorted the detective dryly. “Been out fishing?” “No,” said the little man. “I’ve been rescuing my canoe. Some joker seems to have played tricks with it in the night.”