forgot the minor excitement of the situation in view of this unexpected
apparition.

"_Voila! Ils viennent! Venez vite!_" cried Gros Jean.

He ran further along the quay, followed by the Turks.

"Quick, Bobby! Oh, Jack, do something! Mr. Brett could not foresee this,
though he seemed to have an inspiration that kept him in the hotel. What
can we do? Dubois and the girl will know you at once! Jack, shouldn't
you keep out of sight?--go below--go and fetch Mr. Brett. Oh, dear, this
is dreadful!"

Thus did Edith, for once yielding to feminine irresolution, appeal to
her lover and brother, vainly seeking to discover the best line of
action to follow in this disastrous circumstance, for she knew that the
diamonds must now be in the personal possession of Dubois. It was a
golden opportunity to recover the stolen gems. If once he eluded the
grasp of his pursuers after landing they might--probably would--secure
him, but not the diamonds.

Daubeney, now purple with perplexity, and Fairholme, swearing softly
under his breath, sprang from the deck to the low wall of the quay.
Almost unconsciously they joined Sir Hubert and Mr. Winter. Edith
followed them. She glanced at her brother. He was gazing curiously,
vindictively, at the two figures on the deck of the _Belles Soeurs_.
There was a fierce gleam in his eyes, a set expression in his closed
lips, a nervous twitching at the corners of his mouth, that betokened
the overpowering emotions of the moment.

With a woman's intuition Edith realized that no power on earth, no
consideration of expediency, would restrain him from laying violent
hands on Dubois at the first possible opportunity. She knew there must
be a struggle, in which Gros Jean and the Turks, perhaps the four
sailors, would participate. They might use knives and firearms, whereas
the Englishmen were unarmed.

So she ran back on board the yacht and cried to the Scotch engineer--

"Oh, Mr. Macpherson! Please come with some of your men! There may be a
fight on the wharf, and Mr. Daubeney and the others will be
outnumbered!"

Macpherson for once forgot his cautiousness. There was none of the
characteristic slowness of the Scottish nation in his manner or language
as he yelled down the fore-hatch: "Tumble up, there! Some damned
Eye-talians are goin' to hammer the boss. Bring along a monkey-wrench
or the first thing to hand. Shar-r-p's the wo-r-rd!"

Forthwith there poured from the hatchway a miscellaneous mob of