Jim Webb, “crew” of the yacht _Firefly_, came walking briskly over the fields from Frattenbury the next morning. In the clear autumn air he heard the Cathedral chimes strike the half-hour, and compared the time with his watch. Half-past seven. His skipper breakfasted at half-past eight, so there was plenty of time for him to prepare the meal with the help of the little oil-stove in his cuddy. It was only a few minutes later when he reached Marsh Quay. Mrs. Yates, who was standing at the open door of the “Mariner’s Arms,” greeted him with a “Good morning,” which he returned. The tide was out and the yacht rode at anchor in calm water. Moored to her stern was her dinghy, and Webb had to get aboard. Mrs. Yates, who was a good-natured woman, had come out of the inn and strolled down to where he was standing by the water’s edge. “You’ll be getting your master’s breakfast, I suppose,” she said. “If you want any hot water, I’ve got a kettle on the fire.” “Thankee kindly, missis, but there’s a stove abord. Tell you what, though, I’ll have to borrow one of these punts. I suppose that’ll be all right?” “You’re welcome. These here belong to me, and a nuisance they are at times. The boys will get playing about with them. Look here—they’ve been at it again, the young rascals! I know this one was tied up all right yesterday.” And she pointed to one which was unsecured to a post. “Them boys are the plague of my life,” she went on, as Webb dragged the little craft down to the water and shoved off. She stood, arms akimbo, watching him as he paddled the few strokes that brought him to the yacht. As he clambered aboard he waved his hand to her, and at that moment he noticed behind her the young man who had been in the bar parlour the previous evening push a bicycle, with a stuffed holdall strapped to it, and go quickly riding away along the road. Mrs. Yates still stood looking out over the great expanse of mud that characterised the estuary at low tide. It was a pleasant morning, and she had nothing particular to do just then. Turning, she stopped for a minute or two to tighten the painter of one of the other boats, and then began to walk slowly back to her house. Suddenly she stopped. A hoarse cry rang out over the water behind her. Turning once more, she saw Webb frantically climbing from the yacht into the canoe, shouting incoherently as he did so. She ran to the shore to meet him as he landed. “What’s the matter?” “Him—Mr. Templeton!” he cried as he staggered ashore. “What?” “Dead!” “_Dead?_ What do you mean?” “Yes—dead! I found him lying there in the cabin—on the floor.” “But—but—surely——” “I tell you he’s dead!” cried the man; “and what’s more, he’s been murdered!” “Oh, my God!” ejaculated Mrs. Yates, sitting down on one of the posts. “What do you mean?”