"Leave me alone!" Bloem's nerves were raw and jagged. "It isn't my fault — you never asked me» and you've been too busy talking yourself for me to tell you." He glared round at the Saint. "That meddling puppy got me — I was just taking Harry some food — the door was open, and he got me. I know he'd found Harry!"

Bittle sprang at the Boer like a wild beast, his face contorted with demoniac fury, and Bloem reeled back from a vicious blow. In an instant Bit-tie had grabbed a couple of revolvers, and was holding them threateningly in his quivering hands, and Bloem cowered sullenly back from the flaming passion that blazed in Bittle's eyes. Bittle, in that towering paroxysm, would have murdered the other where he stood, given the slightest provocation, and the Boer knew it.

"Search the ship!" Bittle shrilled. 'Tou-Vfl of you! Get out and search the ship!"

"Why bother?" asked the Saint in his silkiest manner. "If you want to find Harry the Duke, my little ones, you'll have to go all the way back to Baycombe!”

Bittle swung round.

"Meaning?" he prompted dangerously.

"Meaning that when I'd dented old Bloem's cranium, I went into the cabin and found Harry the Duke, alias Agatha Girton," said Simon. "We had quite a long chat. He told me how Agatha died years and years ago, at Hyeres, and Harry took her place. The Tiger found him out — and that was another bad bloomer. You'd have thought any sane man would have been satisfied with a cool million; but no, the Tiger was so greedy he had to blackmail Harry for Miss Holm's money, and that made Harry sore. Harry's a dangerous man when he's sore, and he tried to kill the Tiger. Then the Tiger saw what a mug he'd been, and decided to take Harry off on the cruise and dump him over the side with a couple of firebars spliced to his feet, which is a very effective way of killing a man and has the advantage that it leaves no incriminating corpses about. Harry was able to tell me quite a lot of interesting things about Tigers and Tiger Cubs. Then I told him a few things he didn't know, and after that we shook hands — he was really a sportsman, because he did try to put the kibosh on your hanky-panky with Miss Holm, whom he was rather fond of — and I let him slip over the side and swim back to Baycombe on condition he wrote an anonymous letter to Carn telling him all those things about Tigers and Tiger Cubs which we'd discussed." The Saint looked almost apologetic. "And, therefore, one and only — thank God — Bit-tie, I can assure you that the police will come aboard with the pilot if you so much as show the tip of your bowsprit outside Cape Town harbour, and the Mounted will be camped all round T.T. Deeps in case you manage to sneak in by the back way. Rather upsetting, isn't it?"

"You, at least, will not laugh much longer," said Bittle, and put the muzzle of one of his revolvers in the Saint's face.

"Half a sec.!" Simon's voice ripped out like a gunshot, and Bittle hesitated with his finger tightening on the trigger. "While I'm being so communicative, you might as well hear the rest of the yarn — it may help you, though I doubt it. Let me tell you your second mistake. I've got another stiff one ready to shoot at you! This is mostly Orace's story, but he won't mind my cribbing it. Orace, you know, hasn't been wasting his time. Orace went below and laid out your engineer and put on his clothes. You spoke to him yourself, and never guessed — I'll bet that makes you hop! Then I arrived, and also mistook Orace for the genuine article, and I'd nearly killed him before I found out my error. Orace and I knew enough about motors to obey the telegraph, and we were the ones took this bateau out for you. After we'd finished I made Orace take off the overalls, so that you wouldn't suspect anything; but the real engineer is still locked up below, and he must be pretty cramped and peevish by this time! But that's not the whole yarn — not by a mile!"

Bittle had lowered his gun as the Saint talked on, for it was dawning upon Bittle that the Saint had an even bigger trump card yet to play. Prince of bluffers though the Saint might be, Bittle could not believe that he could bluff for his life in such a casual manner. The Saint smiled all the time, and he was smiling in such a way as almost to invite the others to doubt his word, yet every now and then he handed them out one perfect gem of verifiable fact to shatter their illusions and force them back as to credulity. He used his facts as pegs on which to hang the decorations with which his egotism compelled him to embellish the tale, but for all that those facts stuck out as stark and uncontrovertible as a forest of spears. And all the time Bittle could sense that the Saint, in his mild and lingering way, was working up to an even more devastating bombshell. What that bombshell was going to be Bittle could not divine, but the conviction was borne in upon him that a mine of some sort was going to be exploded somewhere in his vicinity. And therefore he waited for the Saint to have his say, for he was hoping to minimize his danger by letting the Saint forearm him against it.

Simon was gazing through a porthole at the dark horizon, and something that he saw there seemed to please him. His smile trembled on the verge of laughter, as at some secret jest, and when he went on there was a trace of excitement creeping into his voice.

"Orace and I," said the Saint, "have brains, and Orace used to be a Sergeant of Marines, so he was able to provide the raw material for our ingenuity to work on. Before we started the picnic, we put your bilge pump out of action and opened up one of the scuttles in the keel. My nautical knowledge is very scanty, and I'm not sure if that's the way a sailor would describe the gadgets, but I expect Maggie will tell you what I mean. Anyway, a lot of water started pouring in, and we legged it out of the way without waiting to see what happened next. Still, I notice that we seem to have lost a lot of speed, and unless my eyes are failing I should say that we had developed what I understand is called a list to starboard, so I suppose the old tub really is going down. Check me up if I'm wrong….”

Maggs started up, and the others looked wildly about them. The Saint had spoken the truth. The list had developed very slowly at first, so that no one had noticed it in their absorption in more tempestuous things, but now that the Saint had called their attention to it the fact was indisputable.

Suddenly there was a stampede for the door.

Bittle leaped forward, raving like a maniac, and quelled the panic. He fought in between the ter-. rified mob and the door, and held them off at revolver point. Then he himself opened the door and looked out.

The ship had lost way considerably, and was now heeling over so much that it was difficult to walk on the sloping decks.

Bloem was swaying drunkenly toward the door.

"The gold!" he blubbered. "The gold! ... It'll sink! ... Bittle, make them get the gold into the boats!"

"You're a fool!"

Bittle pushed the man back — he was easily the calmest of them all. His rage had simmered down, now, out of visibility, but it gleamed behind his small pale blue eyes like the molten lava which oozes down the sides of a volcano when the eruption has died down. Both his guns went up.

"You beat me in the end. Templar!" he shouted. "But I can see that you never enjoy it." Like one possessed, he kicked aside a man who stood in his line of fire. "Laugh now, Templar!" he babbled. "It's your last laugh!"?

And the Saint chuckled, throwing back his head joyously, for he had seen the final shock which he had allowed for dovetail in according to schedule.

"Put up your hands, Bittle!"

The voice cracked into the room like a bared sabre.

Bittle turned and saw the man who had appeared in the doorway, and his revolvers thudded to the carpet from his nerveless fingers.