her side of the canal, had allowed the dainty,
varnished little craft they were supposed to propel to come to a rest
in spite of the evident displeasure of a man who sat in its stern.
This third man was the same that Cleggett had seen on the deck of the
Annabel Lee with a spy glass, and again that same morning driving the
two almost nude figures up and down the canal.

The two oarsmen, Cleggett saw with surprise, rowed with shackled feet;
their feet were, indeed, chained to the boat itself. About the wrists
of each were steel bands; fixed to these bands were chains, the other
ends of which were locked to their oars. They were, in effect, galley
slaves.

All this iron somewhat hampered their movements. But the reason of
their pause was an engrossing interest in the box of Reginald
Maltravers, which stood, as has already been said, on the port side of
the cabin, on one end, and so was visible from their boat. They were
looking at it with slack oars, dropped jaws and starting eyes; the
thing seemed to have fascinated them and bereft them of motion; it was
as if they were unable to get past it at all. Elmer, worn out by his
many long vigils, lay asleep on the deck at the foot of the box, with
an arm flung over his face.

The stout man, after vainly endeavoring to start his oarsmen with
words, took up an extra oar and began vigorously prodding them with it.
Cleggett had not seen this man look towards the Jasper B., but he
nevertheless had the feeling that the man had missed little of what had
been going on there. He seemed to be that kind of man.

His crew responding to the stabs of the oar, the little vessel went
perhaps fifty yards farther up the canal towards Parker's, and then
swung daintily around and came back towards the Jasper B. at almost the
speed of a racing shell, the men in chains bending doggedly to their
work. Cleggett saw that the boat must pass close to the Jasper B., and
leaned over the port rail.

The man in the stern had picked up a magazine and was lolling back
reading it. As the boat passed under him Cleggett saw on the cover
page of the magazine a picture of the very man who was perusing it. It
was a singularly urbane face; both the counterfeit presentment on the
cover page and the real face were smiling and calm and benign.
Cleggett could read the legend on the magazine cover accompanying the
picture. It ran:

Wilton Barnstable Tells In this Issue the Inside Story
of How he Broke