gh blue,
untroubled waters; and there we came in for all the red tape that Roger
had foreseen, if not more. But how inoffensive, even pleasing, is red
tape to a man saved from handcuffs and a prison cell!

The body of an unknown woman in a coffin picked up at sea gave the
chance for a dramatic "story" to flash over the wires from Jersey to
London; and the evident fact that death had been caused by poison added
an extra thrill. Every soul on board the _Naiad_ was questioned, down to
the _chef's_ assistant; but the same tale was told by all. The coffin
had first been sighted at a good distance, and mistaken for a dead shark
or a small, overturned boat. The whole party were agreed that it must be
brought on board, though no one had wanted it for a travelling
companion, and the sailors especially had objected. (Now, by the way,
they were revelling in reflected glory. They would not have missed this
experience for the world!) I quaked inwardly, fearing that someone might
mention the veiled female journalist who had arrived before the start,
with an order to view the _Naiad_. But so completely was her departure
from the yacht taken for granted, that none who had seen her recalled
the incident.

There was no suspicion of Roger Fane, nor of any one else on board, for
there was no reason to suppose that any of us had been acquainted with
the dead.

The description wired to London was of "a woman unknown; probable age
between forty and fifty; hair dyed auburn; features distorted by effect
of poison; hands well shaped, badly kept; figure medium; black serge
dress; underclothing plain and much torn, without initials or
laundry-marks; no shoes."

It was unlikely that landlords or chance acquaintances should identify
the woman newly arrived from France with the woman picked up in a coffin
at sea. And the gray-veiled motor toque, the gray cloak worn by the
"journalist," and even the battered boots, with high, broken heels, were
safely hidden with the heirlooms from the Abbey.

All through the week of our trip the three drawers in Roger's desk
remained locked, the little Yale key hanging on Roger's key ring. And
all that week (there was no excuse to make for home before the appointed
time) our Plan had to lie in abeyance. I was impatient. Roger was not.
With Shelagh by his side--and very often in his arms--the incentive for
haste was all mine. But I was happy in their happiness, wondering only
whether Roger would not be tempting