"
"Ah! V'la un affaire bien fini! Allons! Jettez-le!" growled the
grim boatswain, dropping his loaded club, as all three spurned the
prostrate body, and then, with a heavy lurch, it bounded off the
sodden bank plunging downward, over the cliff.
For a moment, there was no sound! Then skirting the furze bushes
of the headland, the three assassins dragged their stiffened limbs
along in the darkness, hastening to where the stout Hirondelle
rocked easily in the dead water of the one protected cove to the
north of Rozel Point.
They were all safely stowed away in the forecastle before half an
hour, and, with grunts of satisfaction, examined the largess of
their mysterious employer, "C'est ungaillard--un vrai coq d'Anglais!"
growled the boatswain, as his chums produced another bottle, and
the three doffed their drenched clothing. Then cognac drowned their
scruples against murder--for the price was in their pockets.
It was half past eleven o'clock when gaunt old Andrew Fraser led
his half-fainting ward ashore from the Stella, at St. Heliers pier.
But one covered carriage had remained on the storm-beaten pier,
braving the rigors of this terrible night. "Never mind the luggage,
man," shouted the Professor to the driver. "Here's ten pounds to
drive us over to Rozel, to my home! And, I'll bait yere horses,
put ye up, and give ye a tip to open yere eyes." The hardy islander
whipped up his horses, and soon cautiously climbed the hill of St.
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