“What did you think was up?” asked Jack.

“Why, as near as we could figger, this was some smuggler’s hidin’ place, and we was figgerin’ that perhaps Jerry and me would have five ’hundred or a thousand dollars’ reward to divvy up on.  It wa’n’t—­but, anyway, Jerry an’ me are proper glad we stumbled in on this, just the same.  Now, mate, spin yer own yarn.”

Hal was on his feet, by this time, and shaking hands with the two rescuers.  Gaston, at the furthest end of the little room, again cowered against the wall, frightened and surly.

Jack Benson told as much of the story as he thought wise, though he felt it best to leave out the names of M. Lemaire and Mlle. Nadiboff.

Next Hal described how, at the hotel, he had set himself to watching Gaston; how he had shadowed the fellow.

“Did he come out here in an auto?” asked Jack.

“No; if he had, I couldn’t have followed,” Hal responded.  “But this place is barely four miles from the hotel.  We can get back in an hour.”

“What ye goin’ to do with this feller, anyway?” demanded Hickey, jerking a thumb in the direction of the frightened Gaston.

“Turn him over to the police,” spoke Jack, promptly.  “Even if we fail to prove anything else Hal can help me fasten a charge of felonious assault on the scoundrel.  That will be enough to keep him locked up for a couple of years to come.”

Gaston heard this with a falling jaw, though he did not venture to say anything.

“Well, Jerry and me are ready whenever you are, mates,” hinted big Hickey.

Jack nodded, and they filed out, Jerry coming last of all to make sure that the Frenchman did not lag behind.

“Now, stand up, me bucko,” ordered Hickey, seizing the chauffeur’s collar as that worthy crawled through the bushes at the outer end of the tunnel.  “Tryin’ to steal submarine secrets, was ye?  So some foreign nation’d have the trick of blowing our battleships to pieces, and the sailors on ’em?  Jerry, wot d’ye reckon ’ud be about right for Frenchy!”

“Pass him over to me and I’ll see,” grinned the smaller sailor.

Hickey grasped the frightened chauffeur in both hands, then fairly hurled him at the smaller sailor.  Jerry struck him once, with each lively fist, then sent the fellow spinning back to Hickey.  The latter caught Gaston, tossing him up in the air, then striking him hard as the fellow came down.  This done, the chauffeur was again hurled back at Jerry.  For some time the two sailors kept this up.  It was rough, heavy punishment.  Gaston bellowed like a sick bull under all the strenuous handling.  He must have ached in every bone in his body when Hickey finally caught him, on a rebound, and held him off at arm’s length.

“Had about enough, Frenchy?” demanded the big sailor.

“Oh, mercy, monsieur!” panted the fellow wailingly.  “I have had much plenty to last me all my life.”