“What sort of a gent?” I demanded with interest.

“Smallish, ‘e was, sir, an’ very civil spoken.  Wanted to get to Tilbury.”

“Did he ask who the boat belonged to, by any chance?”

Mr. Gow reflected for a moment.  “Now you come to mention it, sir, I b’lieve ’e did.  Not as I should have told ’im anything, even if I’d known.  I don’t hold with answerin’ questions.”

“You’re quite right, Mr. Gow,” I observed, catching hold of the stern of the Betty.  “It’s a habit that gets people into a lot of trouble—­especially in the Law Courts.”

We clambered on board, and while my companion made the dinghy fast, I went down into the cabin, and proceeded to rout out the lockers in search of provisions.  I discovered a slab of pressed beef, and some rather stale bread and cheese, which I set out on the table, wondering to myself, as I did so, whether the inquisitive stranger of the morning was in any way connected with my affairs.  It couldn’t have been Latimer, for that gentleman was very far from being “smallish,” a remark which applied equally well to our mutual friend with the scar.  I was still pondering over the question when I heard Mr. Gow drop down into the fo’c’s’le, and summond him through the connecting door to come and join the feast.

He accepted my invitation with some embarrassment, as became a “paid hand,” but a bottle of Bass soon put him at his ease.  We began by discussing various nautical topics, such as the relative merits of a centre-board or a keel for small boats, and whether whisky or beer was really the better drink when one was tired and wet through.  It was not until we had finished our meal and were sitting outside enjoying our pipes that I broached the question that was at the back of my mind.

“Look here, Gow,” I said abruptly, “were you speaking seriously when you suggested that launch ran you down on purpose?”

His face darkened, and then a curious look of slow cunning stole into it.

“Mebbe they did, and mebbe they didn’t,” he answered.  “Anyway, I reckon they wouldn’t have bin altogether sorry to see me at the bottom o’ the river.”

“But why?” I persisted.  “What on earth have you been doing to them?”

Mr. Gow was silent for a moment. “’Tis like this, sir,” he said at last.  “Bein’ about the river all times o’ the day an’ night, I see things as other people misses—­things as per’aps it ain’t too healthy to see.”

“Well, what have you seen our pals doing?” I inquired.

“I don’t say I seen ’em doin’ nothin’—­nothin’ against the law, so to speak.”  He looked round cautiously.  “All the same, sir,” he added, lowering his voice, “it’s my belief as they ain’t livin’ up there on Sheppey for no good purpose.  Artists they calls ’emselves, but to my way o’ thinking they’re a sight more interested in forts an’ ships an’ suchlike than they are in pickchers and paintin’.”

I looked at him steadily for a moment.  There was no doubt that the man was in earnest.