“Over there? Oh, he’s a London chap. Name o’ Moss—Isaac Moss. He’s a Jew, so they say.” “Ont-of-the-way place, eh?” “He only comes down for week-ends. That’s his craft—yonder,” and he nodded towards one of the little yachts lying near the newcomer. “Has to keep her over this side, but rows across when he wants her. She’s stowed for the winter now, I reckon. Lord, _he_ can’t sail her, sir. Has a man to do it for him.” “What is he?” “Dunno. Something up in London. Reg’lar Jew, sir. Come walkin’ out from Frattenbury one Saturday I was here—his motor had gone wrong, and couldn’t run in to fetch him. Asked me to pull him across when a smartish tide was runnin’, and give me thruppence for it. Look—that’s him,” and he pointed to the other side, where two men were coming out of the wood to the shore. “T’other’s the skipper comin’ back I reckon.” Templeton, for it was he, drew the dinghy ashore, stepped into her, and began to row across. The other, a small man, stood on the shore, apparently still talking to him. The young man, who had been sitting on the bulwarks, rose, left the schooner, and walked back to the inn. From the window he again took up his watch. This time he was successful. Templeton, having boarded his yacht for a few minutes, pulled himself ashore, dragged the dinghy a little way out of the water and made her painter fast to a stump of wood. Then he began walking briskly over the field path that led to Frattenbury. By this time it was well on in the afternoon. The young man came down, had his tea, and then strolled out. For some time he stood at the entrance to the quay looking at the yacht. The latter was only about twenty yards from the shore, and he could clearly make out the name on her bows—the _Firefly_. Later on Tom Gale found a little company assembled in the bar parlour, and spent a pleasant, and somewhat beery, evening. At ten o’clock Mrs. Yates gently but firmly turned them all out. The little group stood talking for a few minutes in the road, and then separated. The night was very dark, but Tom Gale was accustomed to dark nights at sea. Mechanically observant, he could make out the dim shape of the dinghy, already half afloat on the flowing tide, while the outline of the yacht, riding at anchor, was just discernible. There were no lights showing on it. “Skipper ain’t come back yet; he’ll have a dark, lonesome kind o’ walk from Frattenbury,” he said to himself as he made his way along the quay. Arrived on board the _Lucy_, he dived into the forecastle, lighted a candle, closed the hatch—he liked fuggy surroundings—removed his jacket, guernsey and trousers, rolled into his bunk, blew out the light, and in a few minutes was sleeping the heavy sleep of the saturated. The tide rippled up the estuary. The lights in the “Mariner’s Arms” and the cluster of cottages went out. Marsh Quay and its surroundings were still and quiet in the calm autumn night. CHAPTER III A Terrible Discovery