us. Could it be that the pilot Pavely had sold
some secret to a foreign agent, and that the money he carried with him
on the previous night was the price of his treason? It was distinctly
curious that the assassin had not possessed himself of that handkerchief
full of sovereigns.

We lingered in the low-pitched inn for yet another half-hour, my
companion accounting for our visit by telling one of the men a
fictitious story that we had been sent to install the electric light in
some new premises at the back of the old church. We heard several more
inquiries made by the sergeant, and many were the wild theories advanced
by those seafaring loungers. Then, having listened attentively to all
that passed, we retraced our steps to the station, obtained our bags,
and drove to the King's Head Hotel, where we duly installed ourselves.

"There's something very big behind the cruel murder of the pilot--that's
my belief!" declared Raymond before we parted for the night. "Nobody
here dreams the truth--a truth that will be found as startling as it is
strange."

I told him of my suspicions that the publican Bramberger was a spy. But
he shook his head, saying:

"Don't form any immature conclusions, my dear Jacox. At present the
truth is very cunningly concealed. It remains for us to lift the veil
and expose the truth to the police and the public. Good-night."

Three days passed. Ray Raymond remained practically inactive, save that
we both attended the inquest at Southminster as members of the public
and listened to the evidence. The revelation that a man apparently in a
state of great destitution carried forty-nine sovereigns upon him struck
the coroner as unusual, and at his direction the jury adjourned the
inquiry for a week, to allow the police to make further investigation.

As soon as this was decided my companion at once became all activity. He
found the man Rait, a big, clumsy seafarer, and questioned him. But from
him he obtained nothing further. With the publican Bramberger he
contrived to strike up a friendship, loudly declaring his theory that
the motive of the murder of poor Pavely was jealousy, it being now known
that he had been courting the pretty daughter of an old boatman over at
Burnham.

My position was, as usual, one of silent obedience. Hither and thither I
went at his bidding, leaving to his, the master mind, the gradual
solution of the mystery. He was one of those secretive men who
delighted in retaining s