A short walk from the station brought them to the mouth of the river which constitutes the harbour of Biddlecombe.  For a small port there was a goodly array of shipping, and Mr. Chalk’s pulse beat faster as his gaze wandered impartially from a stately barque in all the pride of fresh paint to dingy, sea-worn ketches and tiny yachts.

Uncertain how to commence operations, they walked thoughtfully up and down the quay.  If any of the craft were for sale there was nothing to announce the fact, and the various suggestions which Mr. Chalk threw off from time to time as to the course they should pursue were hardly noticed.

“One o’clock,” said Mr. Stobell, extracting a huge silver timepiece from his pocket, after a couple of wasted hours.

“Let’s have something to eat before we do any more,” said Mr. Tredgold.  “After that we’ll ferry over and look at the other side.”

They made their way to the “King of Hanover,” an old inn, perched on the side of the harbour, and, mounting the stairs, entered the coffee-room, where Mr. Stobell, after hesitating for some time between the rival claims of roast beef and grilled chops, solved the difficulty by ordering both.

The only other occupant of the room, a short, wiry man, with a close-shaven, hard-bitten face, sat smoking, with a glass of whisky before him, in a bay window at the end of the room, which looked out on the harbour.  There was a maritime flavour about him which at once enlisted Mr. Chalk’s sympathies and made him overlook the small, steely-grey eyes and large and somewhat brutal mouth.

“Fine day, gentlemen,” said the stranger, nodding affably to Mr. Chalk as he raised his glass.  Mr. Chalk assented, and began a somewhat minute discussion upon the weather, which lasted until the waiter appeared with the lunch.

[Illustration:  “‘Fine day, gentlemen,’ said the stranger, as he raised his glass.”

“Bring me another drop o’ whisky, George,” said the stranger, as the latter was about to leave the room,” and a little stronger, d’ye hear?  A man might drink this and still be in the Band of Hope.”

“We thought it wouldn’t do for you to get the chuck out of it after all these years, Cap’n Brisket,” said George, calmly.  “It’s a whisky that’s kept special for teetotalers like you.”

Captain Brisket gave a hoarse laugh and winked at Mr. Stobell; that gentleman, merely pausing to empty his mouth and drink half a glass of beer, winked back.

“Been here before, sir?” inquired the captain.

Mr. Stobell, who was busy again, left the reply to Mr. Chalk.

“Several times,” said the latter.  “I’m very fond of the sea.”

Captain Brisket nodded, and, taking up his glass, moved to the end of their table, with the air of a man disposed to conversation.

“There’s not much doing in Biddlecombe nowadays,” he remarked, shaking his head.  “Trade ain’t what it used to be; ships are more than half their time looking for freights.  And even when they get them they’re hardly worth having.”