The Pit-Prop Syndicate. Freeman Wills Crofts

Merriman growled with a sudden wave of unreasoning rage. “There's nothing wrong and no need for our meddling. Let us clear out and go on with our trip.”

      Hilliard smiled under cover of darkness.

      “And miss our lunch and excursion with the Coburns to-morrow?” he asked maliciously.

      “You know well enough what I mean,” Merriman answered irritably. “Let's drop this childish tomfoolery about plots and mysteries and try to get reasonably sane again. Here,” he went on fiercely as the other demurred, “I'll tell you what I'll do if you like. I'll have no more suspicions or spying, but I'll ask her if there is anything wrong: say I thought there was from her manner and ask her the direct question. Will that please you?”

      “And get well snubbed for your pains?” Hilliard returned. “You've tried that once already. Why did you not persist in your inquiries about the number plate when she told you about the driver's shell-shock?”

      Merriman was silent for a few moments, then burst out:

      “Well, hang it all, man, what do you suggest?”

      During the evening an idea had occurred to Hilliard and he returned to it now.

      “I'll tell you,” he answered slowly, and instinctively he lowered his voice. “I'll tell you what we must do. We must see their steamer loaded. I've been thinking it over. We must see what, if anything, goes on board that boat beside pit-props.”

      Merriman only grunted in reply, but Hilliard, realizing his condition, was satisfied.

      And Merriman, lying awake that night on the port locker of the Swallow, began himself to realize his condition, and to understand that his whole future life and happiness lay between the dainty hands of Madeleine Coburn.