Trrimmer sat firmly planted in a chair. Beside him, in other chairs, sat three prominent citizens of San Marco—one of them the chief of police. Mr. Martin Wall was madly walking the deck near by.
"Going to stay here all night?" he demanded at last.
"All night, and all day to-morrow," replied Mr. Trimmer, "if necessary. We're going to stay here until that boat that's carrying Lord Harrowby comes back. You can't fool Henry Trimmer."
"There isn't any such boat!" flared Martin Wall.
"Tell it to the marines," remarked Trimmer, lighting a fresh cigar.
Just as well that the three shivering figures huddled in the launch on the heaving bosom of the waters could not see this picture. Mr. Wall looked out at the rain, and shivered himself.
Eleven-thirty came. And twelve. Two matches from Mr. Paddock's store went to the discovery of these sad facts. Soaked to the skin, glum, silent, the three on the waters sat staring
