“How about the boats on the opposite shore?” asked the Chief Constable when Joe Thatcher had departed. “There’s only one,” replied Colson, “belonging to Moss.” “Yes—to Moss,” said the superintendent thoughtfully. “It looks ugly for him. We’ll see this Isaac Moss to-morrow morning.” “I shall have to run down to Marsh Quay early before we start,” remarked Colson. “What for?” “A little matter I want to look into. I wish this chap Thatcher had told us all this before.” “It doesn’t matter much,” said the superintendent. “It’s just as well to have cleared off Grayson first. It leaves us a freer hand. I wish we knew more about that motor.” And the others agreed. Early the following morning Colson was at Marsh Quay. He sought out Jim Webb, who was still in charge of the _Firefly_, sleeping aboard her, till he received instructions from her owner at Salcombe. “Webb,” he said, “I want you to row me over opposite.” “All right, sir.” “Pull to the yacht first. I want to see something.” He made Webb pull him all round the yacht till he found what he wanted. “What do you make of this?” he asked, pointing to an indentation in her sides. The paint, especially the narrow green band, was badly rubbed, and the woodwork a little crushed. “Was this done before you came here?” “No, sir. I’m sure it wasn’t. I noticed it on Monday. Some of them reporter chaps—or someone—must have banged into her. They’ve been swarming about the place.” “Might have been caused by the nose of a boat running into her, eh?” “That’s exactly what I think, sir.” “All right, we’ll go across now.” When they reached the farther shore he made for the small boat which was moored to the landing-stage, and examined her carefully. On her bows was a distinct smear of green paint. “Humph,” said the detective, “that seems to bear out Thatcher’s story. That’s the boat, sure enough. Webb,” he went on, “wait here five minutes, will you? There’s something I want to do.” “Yes, sir.” Colson disappeared along the pathway through the wood, carrying under his arm a long, thin brown-paper parcel he had brought. He began to unroll it as he went along. In ten minutes or so he returned, the parcel under his arm, wrapped up once more. His brows knit and he was not looking best pleased. He hardly spoke to Jim Webb, and when he landed at once rode off on his bicycle. “That’s a frost,” he muttered to himself; “at least, it looks like one. Anyhow, we’ll see presently what Moss has got to say. He must be the man who crossed over to the yacht that night. It’s pretty suspicious. But things don’t altogether fit—though they _may_ of course.” CHAPTER XIII Isaac Moss Explains Standing on the platform of Frattenbury Station, waiting for the London train, were Harold Grayson and Winnie Cotterill. The superintendent, who was in plain clothes, raised his hat. “Good morning, sir,” he said with a smile. “I hope you won’t think we are shadowing you up to town!”