"But we're not studying antiquities," Warrender remarked. "The essential point is, what are those beggars using the place for now?

What are they doing with those bales of paper? Come into the tent, and I'll show you the specimen I bagged."

Within the shelter of the tent he unfolded the sheet, and the others bent over it curiously, fingering it.

"It has a sort of parchmenty feel, and it's much too thick for cigarette paper," said Pratt. "Is there a watermark?" He held it up to the sunlight.

"Jiminy!" he exclaimed. Whipping out his pocket-book he took a pound note, and held it beside the larger sheet. "Look here! The watermark's almost, but not quite, the same. A dashed clever imitation. Here are the words, 'One pound,' crowns, diagonal hatchings--everything. The beggars are forging Bradburys."

The sinister discovery almost robbed the others of breath. There could be little room for doubt. Such paper, so marked, could be used for only one purpose. A flood of light was poured on all the mysterious events of the past week. The paper was brought from abroad, and landed as a rule on the island in preference to the coast, to avoid the risk of interference by coastguards; also, no doubt, for greater ease of transport. Rush was employed because he was a well-known figure in the neighbourhood, and could go up and down the river in his boat without awakening suspicion. He might or might not know the contents of the bales; what was clear was that the printing of the notes must be done either in the tower or in Mr. Pratt's house. The foreigners had entered his service with no other end in view than their criminal work.

Gradoff, the head of the gang, had probably known in advance of Mr.

Pratt's intention to travel, and had astutely seized the opportunity of carrying on his operations in this remote spot, on the premises of an eccentric gentleman who was something of a recluse, and p.r.o.ne to quarrel with his neighbours.

"They're clever blackguards," said Pratt. "No wonder the island is haunted! And I say, Molly Rod's peculiar actions the other day are explained. She has found out what's going on, and being a decent Englishwoman, wants to stop it, husband or no husband. You may say what you like, Jack; I'm certain it is she who makes those signals, and, of course, my poor old uncle is absolutely ignorant of everything. He'll be in a terrific bait when he knows."

"What's our next move to be?" asked Warrender. "Inform the police?"

"Certainly not that fellow who yarned about arson the other night," said Armstrong. "It's a matter for the Chief Constable."

"Or Mr. Crawshay? He's a magistrate," suggested Pratt.

"And an impetuous old hothead," rejoined Armstrong.

"Plenty of common sense, though," said Warrender. "You remember, he said a good case is often lost through being ill prepared? Well, we've still only suspicion to go on. There's no earthly doubt about it, of course; but wouldn't it be best to catch the forgers in the act before we call in the law?"

"It means loss of time," said Armstrong.

"That doesn't matter to us. You see, if we set the authorities at work now, they might send a bobby to the house to make inquiries, and give clever scoundrels like those a chance to get away. But if we can go to them and say definitely, 'An international gang of forgers is printing notes in the Red House, and here's one of the forgeries,' the matter becomes much more important, and they'd take steps to secure the whole crowd without the possibility of failure. To my mind we'd better keep everything a dead secret until we've got positive proof."

"I concur with my learned brother," said Pratt. "Besides, we've got so far with it that I own I should hate to see it taken out of our hands.

Furthermore and finally, it's good sport, and a ripping holiday adventure."

"That's the best argument of the lot," said Armstrong. "The only sound one. I confess I'd like to get into the tower, and see them at it."

"We'll go through the tunnel again to-night," said Warrender. "If we can't find an entry that way, we'll try the outside."

"I make a third to-night," said Pratt.

"We must leave some one in camp, if only for appearance's sake," said Warrender. "I think Armstrong and I had better go again, as we know the course. Hope you don't mind. Your turn will come, Percy."

"Well, I'd like to feel myself a martyr, but unluckily I've got a certain amount of common sense, and I can't help admitting you're right.

Hadn't you better take a snooze, then?"

"I intend to," said Armstrong. "We'll sleep till lunch; this afternoon we'll go to the village and get a guide-book. We want some more bacon, too."

"And I'll start preparing our case," said Pratt. "We'd better have it in writing, so I'll draw up an account of our discoveries so far.

Shouldn't wonder if it becomes a cla.s.sic doc.u.ment in the archives of Scotland Yard."

After lunch Armstrong and Warrender set off up the river in the dinghy for the sake of exercise. They made various purchases in the village, and obtained a small guide-book at the post office. It contained a few lines about the tower, which Warrender read aloud as they returned to the ferry: "In the grounds of the Red House are the remains of a square tower, believed to date from the troublous times of King Stephen. There is a tradition that in the thirteenth century a certain baron was incarcerated there by an ancestor of the present owner, and starved to death. At one time open to the public, since tourists cut their initials in the oaken beams it has been closed to sightseers."

"Not a word about smugglers, you see," remarked Warrender. "The secret was evidently very well kept."

Rogers happened to be cleaning his windows as they pa.s.sed, and they turned to have a chat with him. Warrender discreetly led the conversation to the subject of the tower.

"Ay, 'tis the only old ancient curiosity we've got in these parts," said the innkeeper. "I know the place, though I haven't been there since I was a nipper, thirty odd years ago. Us youngsters used to like to climb the winding stairs; 'twas open in those days. Had no roof then. Mr.

Pratt a few years back did some restoring, as they call it; put on a flat roof. My friend Saunders, his old butler, told me the top room was used as a sort of museum; Mr. Pratt kept there a whole lot of curiosities he'd collected in his travels. I mind as how my neighbour Parsons, the builder, was affronted because the building job was done by a firm from Dartmouth, and so far as I know none of the village folk have been inside the place since. Mr. Pratt was very particular after he'd rigged up his museum; wouldn't let anybody in except his special cronies; and 'tis always locked up when he's away, so if you young gents had an idea of visiting it, I'm afeard you'll be disappointed."

"We should certainly have liked to see the museum," said Warrender.

"There's nothing else very interesting, apparently. But no doubt the curiosities are valuable, and Mr. Pratt is quite right to lock up the place. Have you seen your sister, by the way?"

"Not a sign of her. She've deserted us quite. She won't even see Henery Drew's milkman, I suppose becos Henery fought her husband's friend, Jensen. I call it downright silly, but there, who'd be so bold as to say what a woman'll do next? There's my missus----"

"Now, Joe," called Mrs. Rogers from within, "get on with they winders, my man. There's all the pewters to shine afore opening time."

Rogers gave the boys his usual rueful smile, and they went on their way.

Rowing with their faces up stream, they did not notice until they pulled in to the landing-place above the camp that the motor-boat no longer lay at her moorings.

"Have those beggars let her drift again?" said Warrender, angrily.

"Pratt!" he called.

There was no answer. They looked down the river. The boat was not in sight. Hurrying to the tent, with the expectation of finding Pratt asleep there, they discovered that it was untenanted.

"What the d.i.c.kens!" exclaimed Warrender. "Surely he hasn't gone larking with the boat? He always prided himself on knowing nothing about her working!"

"Seems to me they've run off with him and the boat too," said Armstrong.

"Where's his banjo, by the way?"

It was neither in the tent nor on the chair outside, where Pratt sometimes left it.

They looked blankly at each other for a moment, then Warrender exclaimed--

"Come on! This is serious! I can't believe he's kidnapped. What's the use of that? Let us row down--perhaps he hasn't gone far."

They ran to the bank, sprang into the dinghy, and sculled rapidly down stream, every now and then turning their heads to scan the river, the banks, the island, for a sign of the motor-boat. They had almost reached the mouth when Armstrong suddenly cried--

"Listen! Isn't that a banjo?"

They shipped oars. Faintly on the breeze from seaward came the strains of "Three Blind Mice." A few strokes brought the rowers round the slight bend. Looking out to sea they descried, about half a mile away, the motor-boat, stationary, lapped by white-crested wavelets.

"By George! He's picked up some girls," exclaimed Armstrong.

There were certainly two parasols, a pink and a blue, at the stern of the boat.

"The young dog!" cried Warrender. "And got them stranded on a sandbank.

But 'Three Blind Mice!' He's a rummy idea of entertaining girls."

The sound of the banjo ceased. "Ahoy!" came from the boat, and the two parasols were agitated. The scullers pulled on.

"Heavens! It's Mrs. Crawshay and her daughter," said Warrender, after glancing over his shoulder. Armstrong grinned.