s oilskins and his underneath coat.

"Follow me when they wave the lantern twice," he directed. "If we either
of us get the knock--well, thanks!"

Lessingham felt the grip of Sir Henry's hand as he passed him and went
overboard into the darkness. Then, with one arm through the chains,
he drew towards him by means of his heel the coat which Sir Henry had
thrown upon the deck. Gradually it came within reach of his disengaged
hand. He seized it, shook it out, and dived eagerly into the breast
pocket. There were several small articles which he threw ruthlessly
away, and then a square packet, wrapped in oilcloth, which bent to his
fingers. Another breaking wave threw him on his back. One arm was still
through the chain, the other gripped what some illuminating instinct
had already convinced him was the chart! As soon as he had recovered
his breath, a grim effort of humour parted his lips. He lay there for a
moment and laughed till the spray, this time with a rush of green water
underneath, very nearly swept him from his place.

They were waving a lantern on the beach when he struggled again to his
feet.

He slipped the little packet down his clothes next to his skin, and
groped about to find the end of the line which Sir Henry and he had
fastened to a staple below the chains. Then he drew a long breath,
gripped the rope and shouted. A second or two later he was back in the
cauldron.

As they pulled him on to the beach, he had but one idea. Whatever
happened, he must not lose consciousness. The packet was still there
against the calf of his leg. It must be his own hands which removed his
clothes. It seemed to him that those few bronzed faces, those half a
dozen rude lanterns, had become magnified and multiplied a hundredfold.
It was an army of blue-jerseyed fishermen which patted him on the back
and welcomed him, lanterns like the stars flashing everywhere around.
He set his teeth and fought against the buzzing in his ears. He tried to
speak, and his voice sounded like a weak, far away whisper.

"I am all right," he kept on saying.

Then he felt himself leaning on two brawny arms. His feet followed the
mesmeric influence of their movement. Was he going into the clouds, he
wondered? They stopped to open a gate, the gate leading to the gardens
of Mainsail Haul. How did he get there? He had no idea. More movements
of his feet, and then unexpected warmth. He looked around him. There
were voices. He listened. The one voice