Reluctantly the "old man" gave the order to stop the engines. Jan,
sliding down the bridge ladder, communicated to the British officers
the text of the conversation.

"Some rascal of a German spy has betrayed you," he added. "If I could
lay my hands upon him----"

There was a look on the Dutchman's face which showed that his anger was
genuine.

"All right, Jan," said the Flight-Sub. "It's the fortune of war."

* * * * *

"Deucedly rotten morning," remarked Sub-lieutenant Fox as he greeted
the officer of the watch, whom he was about to relieve.

Eccles, the Lieutenant, who had been on the _Capella's_ bridge for four
long and dreary hours, merely nodded sleepily. He was thinking, with
feelings of satisfaction, of the hot coffee and fragrant bacon and eggs
awaiting him below. Three minutes had to elapse before eight bells.
Wearily he rubbed his salt-rimmed eyelids with a heavily gloved hand.

"_Taurus_ wirelessed twenty minutes ago," he reported, as the two
officers entered the chart-room. "She was then at the extreme limit of
her northerly course. You ought to sight her very shortly. Here's our
course"--he indicated the pencilled line on the chart. "Nothing to
report: there never is when I'm officer of the watch. It's this
infernal monotony that plays havoc with a fellow's nerves."

Noel Fox nodded sympathetically. Although the _Capella_ had been only
six days on her new station--keeping a watch on the Dutch coast between
the Texel and the North Hinder Lightship--he, too, was mightily "fed
up" with the task of "treading on the tail of Germany's coat".

Not so much as the periscope of a hostile submarine had been sighted.
The German torpedo-boats that occasionally sneaked southwards from
Borkum were taking an enforced holiday. Perhaps it was in sympathy
with the "High Seas Fleet" skulking in the Kiel Canal. In any case,
the six motor craft of the _Capella_ class had a full share of wintry
conditions in the North Sea without any compensating adventures to
mitigate the monotony.

As Eccles descended from the bridge, a great-coated muffled-up figure,
followed by a large dog, swung himself up the ladder.

"Morning, Haye," was Noel Fox's salutation, as he stooped to pat Shrap,
the chartered libertine of the _Capella_. "Dash it all, it is cold!
Makes a fellow wish he were a sheep-dog. Here, Shrap, off you go and
get your whiskers trimmed. I can see Tomkins waiting for you."