"I suppose it's hardly fair to get him to do what I daren't do myself," thought the girl. Then, summoning up her resolution, she leant over the stroke-thwart, and shudderingly groped for the Acting Chief's pockets. To her delight she found a box of Swedish matches in the breast pocket of Preston's drill patrol jacket. Before she could withdraw her hand the supposedly dead man moved slightly, but none the less perceptibly. That altered the situation. Olive was no longer dealing with a corpse, but with a living person. Instinctively she placed her hand over Preston's heart. It was beating very feebly. "Here are matches, Mahmed!" she exclaimed. "Light the lamp quickly. Preston Sahib is not dead." It seemed an interminable delay before Mahmed succeeded in getting the lamp lighted. The matches were damp, the wick wanted trimming, and the colza oil was a long time before it gave out a flame. At length the lamp was lighted, and there was quite a steady light, and the transition from utter darkness imparted confidence. Giving a hasty look at Mrs. Shallop, to see that she was still in the recovering stage, Olive turned to the more important work in hand. Preston looked a ghastly sight. One side of his face had been badly injured, while the concussion had caused blood to ooze from his eyes, nose, and mouth. Olive's first step was to wash the injured man's face and moisten his lips with water. She had the good sense to use salt water for the washing process, knowing that the contents of the water-beaker were likely to be more precious than gold before the adventure was over. Then, pillowing the patient's head on a sail and covering him with a piece of tarpaulin, she debated as to what was to be done next. Clearly Preston's case required medical aid. Selwyn was in one of the boats, but whether they were in company or not Olive had no idea. "Hold up the lamp, Mahmed," she ordered. "High up." The boy obeyed, while Olive, shading her eyes from the heavy rain, peered around in case any of the other boats might be displaying a light. It was a doubtful point. Even if they had, the torrential downpour would tremendously curtail the range of visibility of the low-powered light. In fact, held high above Mahmed's head, the rays simply illuminated a circular patch of rain-threshed water, a little more than a dozen yards in radius, Beyond was an impenetrable wall of darkness. An involuntary cry came from Olive Baird's lips. She could hardly believe the evidence of her eyes, for floating inertly within an oar's length of the boat was a man--Peter Mostyn. Whether he was alive or dead Olive knew not. His usually tanned features looked a ghastly greenish hue, his eyes were closed, and his head was hanging sideways. His arms were moving slightly, but the movement was purely automatic as the lifebelt-clad figure lifted to the gentle undulations of the sea.