He stood there, a puzzled frown on 1m face. There was another cry, followed by the crash of a bed going over. He arrived at the grille in time to see Guyon drive his fist into Mallory’s face, knocking him against the wall.

“You got me into this, you bastard!” the young Frenchman cried. Til kill you! I’ll kill you!”

He flung himself forward and Mallory ducked under another blow, moved in close and tripped him. A moment later and he was kneeling on Guymon’s chest, hands twisted into his collar as he throttled him expertly.

The young sailor gave a cry of alarm. He pulled back the bolts and moved into the cell, revolver ready in his right hand. He reached for Mallory’s collar and to his amazement Guyon erupted from the floor, grabbed his wrist savagely and twisted the revolver from his grasp. The sailor’s mouth opened in a cry of alarm that was cut short as Mallory’s fist moved in a short arc against the side of the jaw.

Mallory picked up the revolver, nodded to Guyon and they went outside quickly. All was quiet. Guyon bolted the door and they hurried along the passage.

A strange quiet reigned until they reached the main corridor when they heard voices in the distance and the clatter of pans from the kitchen. They passed along to the far end and Mallory opened the door cautiously and stepped on to the landing at the top of the steps which led down to the cave.

The jetty was deserted and Fleur de Lys and the speedboat were the only craft moored to the wall. They went down the stone steps quickly, paused for a moment at the bottom, then hurried across to Fleur de Lys.

When they went into the wheelhouse they saw at once that the radio telephone had been removed from its housing on the wall. Mallory grinned tightly. “He’s a cautious bastard, I’ll say that for him.”

“Only to be expected.” Guyon shrugged. “A good soldier tries to foresee every eventuality.” He looked around and shook his head. “This looks one hell of a size for two of us.”

“We’ll manage,” Mallory said. “We’ll have to. There’s plenty of fuel in the tank, which is the main thing. Go get those lines off the jetty and we’ll move out.”

Guyon went forward quickly and untied the first line. As he started aft there was a harsh cry. When he glanced up he saw a sailor standing on the landing at the top of the steps. He ran along the deck and cast off the other line. The sailor drew a revolver and fired two wild shots as he came down the steps.

He was too late. The engines were already roaring into life and Mallory took Fleur de Lys out through the entrance. Spray splashed against the window, waves breaking over the deck as he turned through the lee-side of the reef and set course for Pointe du Chateau.

hamish grant opened the door and stood listening to the sound of quiet breathing. Fiona was stretched on the sofa and Anne slept in the wing-backed chair, a rug over her legs.

As he started to close the door she opened her eyes and said softly, “What time is it?”

“Just after eight. Jabber’s made some fresh tea.”

She got to her feet, draped the rug over Fiona and followed him out. “Any sign of them?”

The old man shook his head. “Not yet.”

The kitchen looked out over the courtyard, a large and pleasant room, beams supporting a low ceiling. Jagbir was frying eggs at the stove. When he saw Anne he poured a cup of tea and gave it to her and she stood in front of the fire, drinking it slowly.

Beyond, through the wide window, clouds hung threateningly over the fields, rain dripped from the gutters and brown leaves crawled across the cobbles. She went to the window and gazed out into the rain, thinking of Mallory.

Hamish Grant moved beside her and squeezed her hand. “He did say it would take till breakfast-time. I shouldn’t worry too much if I were you.”

Tm not,” she said. “One thing I am sure of is his ability to look after himself, but I’d have thought we’d have heard from them by now.”

“We very probably will before much longer.”

She finished her tea and moved to the door. “I think I’ll run down to the harbour and see what’s happening.”

“I’ll send Jagbir with you.”

She shook her head. “Let him get on with breakfast. I shan’t be long. No need to wake Fiona till I get back. She could do with the sleep.”

She went along the hall, pulled on her sheepskin coat and let herself out of the front door. Rain fell steadily and she fastened a scarf about her hair as she went down the drive and turned through the gates.

Visibility was poor, a grey, clinging mist drifting in patches across the water, and the central hill of the island looked very green against the leaden sky. She hurried along the road and paused on the brow of the hill to look down into the harbour. Only one boat was moored there, Raoul Guymon’s launch, and the shooting brake was parked at the end of the jetty.

She went down the hill quickly, taking a short cut across the wet grass. The shooting brake was beaded with moisture, the engine cold. She stood there for a moment, a frown on her face, then walked along the jetty and stepped on to the deck of Guymon’s launch. She went into the small saloon, stood looking about her for a moment, then turned to go.

She paused, wrinkling her nose, aware of the heavy, acrid taint of oil on the fresh morning air. It seeped into a pool from under the door of the engine compartment. She opened it and looked into a twisted mass of smashed pipes and broken valves.

She crouched on one knee, gazing at the engine, her mind frozen. As she started to rise, steps boomed hollowly on the wooden planking of the jetty and Owen Morgan called, “Hello below!”

Anne went up the companionway and came out on deck as he stepped down from the jetty. He wore an old blue pilot coat and rubber boots. Rain frosted his grey hair. He started to grin, but his smile faded at the sight of her troubled face.

“What’s wrong?”

“Take a look at the engine.”

He went down the companionway quickly. When he reappeared his face was grave. “Why would anyone want to do a thing like that?”

“To make sure we couldn’t get off the island,” she said.

He frowned quickly. “Look, how about letting me in on all this? Where’s Foxhunter? I heard her go out early this morning.”

“That must have been Colonel Mallory and Monsieur Guyon,” she said. “They should have been back by now. I’m very much afraid something may have happened to them.”

“Are they in some kind of trouble?”

“They could be, but there isn’t time to explain now, Owen. We must get to Guernsey as soon as possible. What about your launch?”

“I hauled her up the slipway and into the boathouse ready for winter only two days ago,” he said. “No trouble to bring her down again if it’s all that urgent. I can have her ready for sea in half an hour.”

“Do that,” Anne said. Til go back to the house for the others. I’ll explain things more fully when I get back.”

She hurried along the jetty, climbed behind the wheel and switched on the engine. It required a lot of choke before it would turn over and Owen was already half-way up the slope towards the boathouse at the side of the hotel when she finally moved away.

The Welshman’s skin crawled with excitement. Whatever was wrong, it was certainly serious. So much had been evident from Anne Grant’s manner and actions, and to a man whose entire life had been a series of adventures the prospect of action carried all the kick of a good stiff drink. When he was only a few yards away from the boathouse he remembered that the heavy door was padlocked. He turned and moved up the slope quickly to the side door of the hotel.

When he went into the kitchen Juliette was standing at the sink washing the breakfast dishes. “Where’s the key to the boathouse?” he. demanded.