It seemed unbelievably stupid and childish, what he imagined was behind the gratuitous intermeddling of Mr. Mussey; but then, he reminded himself, if there is anything more stupid than to plot a criminal act, it is to permit oneself to be influenced by that criminal stupidity whose other name is jealousy.

Well, whether he were right or wrong, the night would declare it; and in any event there was no excuse whatever for refusing to profit by the stupidity of men whose minds are bent on vicious mischief....

The weather thickened as the day grew older.  Towards noon the wind, as if weary and discouraged with vain endeavour to make up its mind to blow from this quarter or that, died away altogether.  At the same time the horizon appeared to close in perceptibly; what little definition it had had in earlier hours was erased; and the Sybarite, shearing the oily and lifeless waters of a dead calm, seemed less to make progress than to struggle sullenly in a pool of quicksilver at the bottom of a slowly revolving sphere of clouded glass, mutinously aware that all her labouring wrought no sort of gain.

After an hour of this, Captain Monk, on the bridge with Mr. Swain, arrived at a decision of exasperation.  Through the engine-room ventilators a long jingle of the telegraph was heard; and directly the Sybarite’s pulses began to beat in quicker tempo, while darker volutes of smoke rolled in dense volume from her funnel and streamed away astern, resting low and preserving their individuality as long as visible, like a streak of oxidization on a field of frosted silver.  For the first time since she had left the harbour of Cherbourg the yacht was doing herself something like justice in the matter of speed—­and this contrary to all ethics of seamanship, on such a day.

At the luncheon table, Phinuit ventured a light-headed comment on this dangerous procedure; whereupon Monk turned on him in a cold fury.

“As long as I’m master of this vessel, sir, I’ll sail her according to the counsels of my own discretion—­and thank you to keep your animadversions to yourself!”

“Animadversions!” Phinuit echoed, and made round, shocked eyes.  “Oh, I never!  At least, I didn’t mean anything naughty, skipper dear.”

Monk snorted, and grumbled over his food throughout the remainder of the meal; but later, coming upon a group composed of Liane Delorme, Lanyard and Phinuit, in the saloon, he paused, looked this way and that to make sure none of the stewards was within eavesdropping distance, and graciously unbent a little.

“I’m making the best time we can while we can see at all,” he volunteered.  “No telling when this misbegotten fog will close in and force us to slow down to half-speed or less—­in crowded waters, too!”

“And very sensible, I’m sure,” Phinuit agreed heartily.  “Whatever happens, we musn’t be late for our date with Friend Boss, must we?”

“We’ll keep it,” Monk promised grimly, “if we have to feel every inch of our way in with the lead.  I don’t mind telling you, this fog may save our skins at that.  Wireless has been picking up chatter all morning between a regular school of revenue cutters patrolling this coast on the lookout for just such idiots as we are.  So we’ll carry on and trust to luck till we make Monk Harbour or break our fool necks.”