he morrow,
neither. I must send down for telegrams in the morning," she mused when
she had finally laid her spectacles across her Bible.

It was nearing eleven o'clock when the two half-drowned thugs hiding on
Rozel Head were roused by their returning mate stumbling wildly into
the muddy cavern in the cliff. They sprang up as he muttered, "On vient,
tout pres d'ici! Soyous tous prets!" A bottle extended was half drained
by the two ruffians, who then eagerly loosened their black jaws with a
mad desire to revenge their cheerless vigil.

"Lei has," whispered the spy, pointing to a black object creeping
unsteadily up the steep path--Simpson, dreaming still of pretty
Ann's rounded white arms! It was indeed Simpson, with unsteady
steps, breasting the hill. A fear of Andrew Fraser's arrival led the
half-fuddled old veteran to hasten homeward now. "I can say the telegram
was late," he chuckled. "They never will know." And then feeling for his
pocket-flask, filled by handsome Ann, "as a last night-cap," he turned
into the little cavern, where the school-boys, on a Saturday outing,
often played "pirates," for his breath was gone and his eyes were
drenched with salt scud.

Then, a half smothered cry arose, as the three waiting thugs leaped
upon their prey. Simpson was taken off his guard! His muscles were all
relaxed by drink. He fell prone as the heavy black jacks descended upon
his head, muffled in the hood of his "dreadnaught."

"Ah! V'la un affaire bien fini! Allons! Jettez-le!" growled the grim
boatswain, dropping his loaded club, as all three spurned the prostrate
body, and then, with a heavy lurch, it bounded off the sodden bank
plunging downward, over the cliff.

For a moment, there was no sound! Then skirting the furze bushes of the
headland, the three assassins dragged their stiffened limbs along in the
darkness, hastening to where the stout Hirondelle rocked easily in the
dead water of the one protected cove to the north of Rozel Point.

They were all safely stowed away in the forecastle before half an
hour, and, with grunts of satisfaction, examined the largess of their
mysterious employer, "C'est ungaillard--un vrai coq d'Anglais!" growled
the boatswain, as his chums produced another bottle, and the three
doffed their drenched clothing. Then cognac drowned their scruples
against murder--for the price was in their pockets.

It was half past eleven o'clock when gaunt old Andrew Fraser led his
half-fainting ward