“Twelve o’clock!” Collins muttered.

Suddenly Granet’s fingers dug into his shoulder.  From out of that pall of velvet darkness which hung below the clouds, came for a single moment a vision of violet light.  It rose apparently from nowhere, it passed away into space.  It was visible barely for five seconds, then it had gone.  Granet spoke with a little sob.

“My God!” he murmured.  “They’re coming!”

Collins was already on his feet.  He had straightened himself wonderfully, and there was a new alertness in his manner.  He, too, wore rubber shoes and his movements were absolutely noiseless.  He carried a little electric torch in his hand, which he flashed around the room while he placed several small articles in his pocket.  Then he pushed open the door and listened.  He turned back, held up his finger and nodded.  The two men passed down the stairs, through the sitting-room, out on to the lawn by a door left unfastened, and round the house to the shed.  Together they pushed the car down the slight incline of the drive.  Granet mounted into the driving-seat and pressed the self-starter.  Collins took the place by his side.

“Remember,” Granet whispered, “we heard something and I met you in the hall.  Sit tight.”

They sped with all the silence and smoothness of their six-cylinder up the tree-hung road, through the sleeping village and along the narrow lane to Market Burnham.  When they were within about a hundred yards of the gate, Granet brought the car to a standstill.

“There are at least two sentries that way,” he said, “and if Sir Meyville told me the truth, they may have a special guard of Marines out to-night.  This is where we take to the marshes.  Listen.  Can you hear anything?”

They both held their breath.

“Nothing yet,” Collins muttered.  “Let’s get the things out quickly.”

Granet hurried to the back of the car, ripping open the coverings.  In a few moments they had dragged over the side a small collapsible boat of canvas stretched across some bamboo joints, with two tiny sculls.  They clambered up the bank.

“The creek must be close here,” Granet whispered.  “Don’t show a light.  Listen!”

This time they could hear the sound of an engine beating away in the boat-house on the other side of the Hall.  Through the closely-drawn curtains, too, they could see faint fingers of light from the house on the sea.

“They are working still,” Granet continued.  “Look out, Collins, that’s the creek.”

They pushed the boat into the middle of the black arm of water and stepped cautiously into it.  Taking one of the paddles, Granet, kneeling down, propelled it slowly seaward.  Once or twice they ran into the bank and had to push off, but very soon their eyes grew accustomed to the darkness.  By degrees the creek broadened.  They passed close to the walls of the garden, and very soon they were perceptibly nearer the quaintly-situated workshop.  Granet paused for a moment from his labours.