Pilotage

Chapter 1

Wallace went to the library. He found his father in his usual chair before the fire, a reading lamp at his elbow, the only lamp alight in the dim room. He crossed to the table, laid a finger against the side of the coffeepot, and poured himself out a glass of liqueur brandy.

"What d'you think of our guest?" he asked his father.

"Which? Can't say I ever thought much of that boy, Antony."

"No. Dennison."

"He seems a pleasant enough young fellow. What is he?"

"Solicitor—just out of his articles."

"What's he here for?"

Wallace glanced shrewdly at his father. "He's on an Easter walking tour," he said. He balanced himself upon his insteps on the fender, his shoulders resting against the mantelpiece.

The old man raised his white head, and glanced keenly up at his son. "I wouldn't have put him down as the sort of crank that goes walking," he said.

"No," said Wallace. He sipped his brandy thoughtfully. "That's all a put-up job of course. It's perfectly obvious what he's here for—the poor, guileless lad. He's come to marry Sheila."

He laughed suddenly. "Whoever heard of a man taking a dinner jacket with him on a walking tour?" he said.

There was a silence in the library. The old man sat leaning forward in his chair, stroking his chin. Wallace glanced down at him in some concern. He placed his empty glass upon the mantelpiece. "He's really not a bad sort," he said. "I rather liked him when we met him before, at Aunt Maggie's. He and Sheila were as thick as two thieves then."

"What's the matter with his leg?" inquired his father abruptly, in a manner reminiscent of the stables.

"Oh, that—that was when we met him. He bust it, you know, just before the end of the war, and got sent to Aunt Maggie to convalesce."

He crossed to the table, selected a cigarette with care, and lit it. "As a matter of fact, it was really rather a creditable story. You know that crack there is between a ship and the quay—where you look down and see the water guggling about? Well, he was getting some liberty men aboard one night—all pretty far gone, I suppose. One of them managed to fall down there—there was a space about three feet wide between the ship and the wall. The man couldn't swim, but instead of chucking him a rope like a Christian, this lad must needs go and jump in after him—Humane Society touch and all that."

"Down the crack?"

"Down the crack. It was pitch dark and a twenty-foot drop. Some of the chaps in his ship turned up a Falmouth when we were there and came up to ask about him, and told us all the yarn. Seemed to have made no end of an impression on the madoes. Regular cinema thrill—they loved him for it."

"And he got the fellow out?"

Wallace laughed. "That's where the fun came in. It was pitch dark; he couldn't see where he was jumping to. You know those great baulks of timber, like railway sleepers, that they let down the side of a ship with ropes to act as fenders? Well, he jumped slap down on to one of those that was floating in the water, and bust his leg in two places. Then they had to haul them both out."

He mused a little. "I can tell you," he continued. "It sent up his stock with Sheila. He was quids in after that. I thought he was going to get away with it there and then—and he would have done too, if he'd had a bean to bless himself with."

He paused, and went on quietly, "He just faded away. I'd never seen him till today, and I don't think Sheila had. It's four years."

His father pondered for a little, the blue smoke from his cigar curling heavily about his head. "Do you know what he's going to do now?" he said. "Didn't I hear him say something about Hong Kong?"

Wallace nodded. "Yes," he said. "He's got a chance in his uncle’s firm out there—maritime solicitors. I imagine from what he said that he's to go out as a sort of a junior partner."

"In which case," said the old man slowly, "he would probably be in a position to marry."

"That," said Wallace, "had occurred to me."

His father rose slowly to his feet and threw the stump of his cigar into the fire. "It's got to come sooner or later," he said heavily, "and he seems a decent enough boy." He turned to his son. "And anything rather than that Antony for your sister. That would be intolerable."

Wallace laughed. "I wouldn't worry about that," he said.

Chapter 2

For Dennisonthe week-end passed very quickly. On the afternoon before he left, he went for a walk alone with Sheila.

At the top of a hill a mile and a half from the house, they paused by a low stone wall.

"The leg doesn't seem to bother you much," she said.

"Not a bit," said Dennison. He gazed out over the broad expanse of country spread beneath them, chequered with fields. "It's fine up here."

The girl did not take her eyes from the scene. "One sees such a lot of it," she said. "I've got an Australian cousin who came over for the war—I brought him up here. He said that English people would talk and get enthusiastic about anything like the Empire or the Navy, but you never heard a word about the beauty of their country. It came quite as a surprise to him to find that England was a pretty country. Afterwards, he told me that he thought England in the summer was just a fairyland."

"He was a sensible man," said Dennison.

The girl smiled, and turned to him, "You ought to know all about that," she said.

He laughed. "You mustn't start me off on the sea," he said, "or I shall bore you stiff. All England's simply great, of course, but J think the greatest bits of it are the harbours. Coming into a place like Salcombe at dawn, with the mist rising all pearly-like in the river, and a smell of sausages from below . . . There's a certain charm in seeing England from the outside."

"Just like my cousin goes back to Australia, and realizes that he has seen England From the inside."

"Yes," said Dennison absently. "I wonder if he finds Australia as good as England?"

The girl glanced at him curiously. "Will Hong Kong be as good as England, do you think? "

Dennison started. "The work will be very interesting," he said defensively.

"But when you aren't working?" asked the girl, and hated herself for this question.

"Oh, well," said Dennison. "There'll be plenty to do, you know. And one will be able to come home fairly often— every three or four years, I think."

The girl did not speak.

Presently they turned to walk down the hill. "I shall have to get back to town tomorrow," said Dennison. "My walking tour seems to have been a bit of a frost, doesn't it? I meant to do such a lot, too."

"I don't believe you did," said the girl. "And it's been splendid seeing you again." She walked a little way in silence, and then, "Don't go and disappear again," she said. "You'll—you'll come and stay with us again soon, won't you?"

Dennison glanced at her, smiling gravely. "I shall be disappearing for good before so very long, you know."

"Don't look ahead to it. When will you come again? Could you come down for a week-end—the one after next? I expect Antony will be here still."

"Would you like me to come?" he asked.

She turned to him, a tinge of colour in her cheeks. "Why, yes," she said. "I wouldn't ask you if I didn't want you to come."

"I'd like to come very much," he said.

It was that same evening that Antony, who had obviously taken a great liking to Dennison, led him into his bedroom to show him his drawings.

In person Antony was small and finely built, pale, with smooth black hair and immense black eyes. He spoke rapidly, with a touch of nervousness and with singular charm. The only child of the local rector, he had spent the nineteen years of his life in a perpetual struggle with disease. There was nothing organically wrong with him, yet things that ordinary people never got, Antony had twice. He had been educated at home until he went to Oxford.

He turned over a sheaf of indifferent attempts and picked out the best for Dennison; the head of a pony, a thin line impression of an old woman with a bundle of sticks, and a small landscape with a smeary look about it. Then from a drawer he took another.

"This is the one I want to give to Sheila," he said. "It's one I did quite recently, but I don't know that I care very much for it."

It was a portrait of Sheila, a head and shoulders in profile. Deficient in technical skill though Antony might be, he had succeeded in catching the likeness remarkably well, the shy, secretive smile, the clustering of the fine brown hair about the neck and ears, the lines of the shoulders. Dennison stood gazing at it; to Antony his silence became embarrassing.

"It's—er—it's rather attractive, isn't it?" he said nervously.

Dennison came to himself. "It's very attractive," he said candidly. "I say, could you ... I wonder if I might have a print of this?"

Antony flushed with pleasure. "I'm so glad you like it," he said, "but I'm afraid I can't get you a print of it. You see, I spoilt the plate. I wanted to try and intensify it a little, and I did it all wrong and let the mordant get all over it. Perhaps I could let you have this one in a little time, after she's forgotten about it."

Dennison smiled, and glanced at Antony. "It's a splendid likeness," he said.

Chapter 3

For thefortnight after Easter, Peter Dennison proved an intolerable trial to Lanard with whom he shared rooms in London and a small seven-ton yachtIrene on the Solent. He refused to settle down in the evenings, but stood smoking and walking about the sitting room till Lanard raised a protest. And he was exasperatingly cheerful.

Towards the end of the fortnight he wrote a letter. Lanard watched him dourly from the fireside as he wrote; he knew perfectly well what Dennison was writing about. It was a letter to his uncle in Hong Kong; Lanard suspected that it would be posted after his visit to the Wallaces. Lanard sat watching him, his feet on the fender, a glass of hot water at his elbow. Digestion was a weak point with him.

"They have a sort of thing they call a sampan in China," he said pleasantly. "Very good craft, I believe—one can get quite good sport out of them. You have a black boy—or is it a yellow boy?—sitting on the outrigger. And a lateen sail with stiffeners on it like a metre boat. You'll have to get one of those." He reached out for his hot water.

Dennison put away his letter and came over to the fire. "I don't think they'd be very much fun," he said with disarming simplicity. "You can't work to windward in them."

"If you ask me," said Lanard, "I should think you'd find precious little fun out there at all."

Dennison did not answer.

"I can't say I've grasped what you're going for at all yet," continued the other. "Anyone might think you were simply money grubbing." He considered a little, and picked his words carefully. "You aren't doing so badly here, you know. You're well in with a good firm, and you're making a comfortable little income at work that you're interested in. You've got theIrene—or half of her. You've got a pretty good name in the Solent. And you're giving it all up to go on an infernal wild-goose chase like this."

Dennison finished filling his pipe and dropped into a chair. "Why?" he asked. "It's a very good job."

"You've got a very good job now."

"Don't be a fool. The Chinese one carries more than double the screw."

"I sec," said Lanard. "That's the way it is." He pondered for a little. "So that you can marry?"

"So that I can marry."

Lanard laughed suddenly. "Pity this job didn't come along in the autumn," he said cynically.

He rose to his feet and straightened his waistcoat carefully. "I don't suppose it will do the least good if I say I think you're making a big mistake," he said. He moved over and stood in the window, a favourite position.

"I shouldn't think so," said Dennison smiling. "You think that marriage is a mistake?"

"Good God, no!" said Lanard suddenly. "That's not the mistake you're making. The mistake you're making is in letting marriage influence your life, or your plans. You're living to suit your marriage—not marrying to suit your life. That's the mistake you're making."

Dennison glanced at him. "There's only one thing to say," he said. "I've been thinking this over for four years, and I think it's worth it. That's all there is to it."

"In that case," said Lanard quietly, "I suppose there's no more to be said."

Next day Dennison travelled down to Didcot.

Sheila and Antony were delighted to see him, but the first evening with Antony's added company seemed interminable.

Dennison took his opportunity, when Sheila went out of the room to see about kitchen affairs, to deal with Antony.

"If we're going to do any bird photographs in the morning," he said to the boy, "it means getting up very early. I'd go to bed early if I were you."

Something in his tone checked the indignant comment that sprang to Antony's lips.

"Very early?" he said.

They heard Sheila's footstep in the passage. "Practically at once, if I were you," said Dennison gravely.

"All right," said Antony, "but I shan't get a wink of sleep before one, you know."

"I don't care two hoots about that," said Dennison callously. He said no more, for the girl was in the room.

Presently Antony dutifully put in a plea of fatigue and disappeared. Sheila wrinkled her brows in perplexity. "He's probably got a novel that he wants to read in bed," she said. "I think that must be it. It's hardly ten."

Dennison threw the end of his cigarette into the fire. He sat down on the edge of the fender. "It isn't that," he said. "I told him that if he was going to get out of bed to photograph birds, he must go to bed early."

He paused. "I suppose you know why I told him that," he said. He glanced up at her, standing beside him, and smiled. "You see, I wanted to ask you if you'd like to marry me."

The girl met his eyes with an expression that he could not read. "Would you like me to go on?" he said. "Because—I can stop here if you like."

There was an immense silence.

The girl looked him squarely in the face. "If I were to tell you to stop," she said, "what would you do?"

"Go to bed," said Dennison, "and go home by the ten-fifteen tomorrow morning."

"And if I were to tell you to go on?"

He smiled. "I should try to tell you how this—how this happened."

The girl turned, and sat down on the edge of a chair, her chin resting on her hands. "Please tell me," she said gravely.

"I see," said Dennison slowly. There was a long pause, and then he turned to her. "I don't think it's very much use, is it?"

"I want you to tell me about it."

"I don't think you do, really," he said gently.

"But Peter, I do!" she cried.

He moved a little way along the fender towards her, and took her hand in his, turning it over between his own. "There really isn't very much to say," he said. "I love you— you must know that, I think—and I want you to be my wife. I wanted to ask you that four years ago, but it wasn't possible then. I had to wait."

"You came on a walking tour," said the girl, "and you thought I wouldn't see through it."

"No," said Dennison. "You haven't got that quite right. I knew you'd see through it. It didn't matter with you, you see—you were about the only person I wasn't afraid of. Itwas simply a means of getting in touch with you again. As luck would have it, I happened to meet you on my first day out. I expected to have to hang about the country for a long time."

"After four years," said the girl unevenly. "Oh, Peter!"

"I used to go to your aunt at Falmouth every six months or so," he said, "and pay my respects, and usually I'd get a little news of you." He smiled. "I used to go down there specially sometimes. And when I■was at your aunt's house I could imagine you there again, like it was while my leg was getting well. It's a pity we couldn't have had that time again. I didn't want to tell you this in your own house, and only after two week-ends like this. I'm sorry. I didn't see any other way of doing it, and time is rather short. I'm going out to China in September, you see. I want you to come with me."

"To China?" said the girl.

"Yes," said Dennison. "The screw out there puts me in rather a different position. I start as a junior partner, you know."

There was a long silence. Dennison, watching the girl closely in the firelight, suddenly realized his answer. He knew it quite well. For a moment he sat wondering dully what form it would take, bewildered by his own conviction. Finally the girl broke the silence; her voice was unexpectedly steady.

"Peter dear," she said quietly. "I can't. I'm most frightfully sorry—a lot for you, and a little bit for myself. It wouldn't work that way. It isn't you—it's China."

She paused, and continued, "Don't think it's because of you. It's not. I've tried to put you out of it, because the thing that really settles it is China. I couldn't live the rest of my life in China." She paused, tremulous. "It sounds such a rotten thing to say, in answer to you when you tell me that you love me. When I was a girl I used to think that love was everything worthwhile. But you can't get away from your everyday life. And, Peter dear, I can't change. If it were only for a short time it wouldn't be so bad. One could look forward to coming home, and Daddy could get on quite well for a year or two by himself. 1 couldn't leave him by himself for always. But I don't want to put the blame on Daddy. Even if he weren't there—I couldn't come, Peter."

"I know," said Dennison absently. "It's—it's a great break."

The girl leaned forward and laid her hand upon his knee. "Oh, Peter dear," she said tremulously—"I am so frightfully sorry." Her eyes were full of tears.

Dennison rose to his feet. "Why, no," he said gently. "Don't be sorry. There's nothing to be sorry about, you know. These things happen—they just happen like anything else, and one can't help them. Like a thunderstorm. And one isn't sorry for that."

And that was all they said.

Before Dennison left to catch the train back to London the next morning, Antony waylaid him in the corridor.

"I say," the boy murmured confidentially, beckoning Dennison towards his bedroom, "I've got the etching. I think she's forgotten about it now."

"Oh," said Dennison. "That was awfully good of you."

Antony produced it from a drawer, wrapped in tissue paper. He handed it to Dennison.

Dennison took it, but did not remove the wrapping. He glanced down at it. "I don't think I'd better have this," he said slowly. "It isn't fair. It was different before." He handed it back to Antony.

"It was different before?" said Antony keenly.

Dennison nodded.

Antony looked fixedly at him. "Isn't there any chance of it being different again?" he asked.

Dennison smiled oddly. "Not much," he said.

"I'm most awfully sorry," said the boy simply.

Chapter 4

Dennison reachedLondon early in the afternoon. La-nard was spending the week-end in Hampshire, and would not be back till late. Dennison drove to his rooms, left his bag, and went to his club. Here he had tea and wrote one or two letters—not because they had to be written, but because it was easier to write them than to sit still. Finally he dined —injudiciously.

Restless, he walked back to his rooms about ten. Lanard was back.

"Matrimony at a considerable discount," said Dennison, and went to bed without further explanation.

Lanard found this worrying. His was the nature that magnifies disaster; he worried still further when Dennison appeared to breakfast next morning in pyjamas and a dressing gown.

What about the daily bread?" he said.

Dennison consigned his office to a future existence for that day, and added a rider embracing the next day and the next. His next query gave his companion a clue.

"Did you leave any food on theIrene?"

Lanard considered. "Two tins of milk, one of bully, about half a pound of coffee, and a little tea. And half a pot of strawberry jam."

"Marmalade?"

"Ate it."

Dennison left his breakfast, opened a cupboard, and grovelled in it. He emerged presently, dragging after him a green-strained and battered patent log.

"I wanted that at Easter," said Lanard. "If I'd known it was there, I'd have taken it." He paused. "Going for long? "

"A week," said Dennison. "Where's its line? I brought it up to have it seen to, you know."

"Line's in the sail store," said Lanard. "Saw it when I went to get the light warp for the kedge."

Dennison continued with his breakfast in a moody silence.

"Pilot's guide? he said suddenly.

"On board. And the chart 'Weymouth to Owers.' "

"Where's 'Dodman to Portland'?"

His friend gazed at him keenly. "You can't get across the West Bay and back in a week," he said.

Dennison flared suddenly into a temper. "Damn it," he said. "I'll go where I bloody well like. Where's the chart?"

"In the cupboard, I think," said Lanard gently. He hesitated a moment. "If you care to wait a day, I'll come with you tomorrow."

Dennison got up and went into- his bedroom. "No, thanks," he said wearily. "There'd be black murder on the high seas."

"Right you are," said Lanard. "Get a new frying pan ifyou think of it—it's practically done for. And some prickers for the Primus. Back in a week?"

"Week or ten days," said Dennison.

Lanard finished his breakfast and departed for his office. Dennison dressed slowly in his sea-going clothes, and packed a bag. For a moment he stood looking round the sitting room, as if in search of anything that he might have left behind.

"I didn't think it would be like this," he said aloud.

He turned, picked up his bag, and left the house. He caught a morning train at Waterloo and travelled to Southampton, lunched at a restaurant near the Bar, and caught a bus to Hamble early in the afternoon.

He carried his bag down through the village to the hard, left it there, and went in search of the venerable proprietor of the yard. He found him by the water's edge supervising the finishing touches to a small cutter, brilliant with new paint.

"I'm taking theIrene for a week," said Dennison.

The old man turned and regarded him, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his overalls. "Aye," he said slowly. "Puttin' out with the last of the ebb, sir? She's no but half an hour to run."

Dennison glanced down the river; the long green banks of mud and the tall perches bore evidence to his statement. "She'll run over the flood with the engine," he said. "I've got to get some stuff aboard."

You'll be staying by the Island?" said the old man.

"Dennison shook his head. "Try and get down west," he said.

The old man glanced up and regarded the flying southwesterly scud. "Rain to come," he said. "I must get my painting covered. We don't seem to have had no nice weather for drying yet, not as we ought." He turned to Dennison. "You'll not do much good this evening," he said. "Rain to come, and the tide foul in the channel till after nine."

"Drop under Calshot for the night," said Dennison.

They turned and walked up the beach to the sail store. "Did you hear of Mrs. Fleming?" said the old man, "what kept the baker's shop in the village, died sudden last month."

He recounted the details of the fatality till they reached the sail store, where he hailed a small boy and directed himto see to the launch of theIrene's dinghy. Dennison fetched his bag, loaded up the little boat with tackle from the store, and rowed out to the yacht.

He opened the hatch and descended into the little saloon. Overhead the dark clouds massed up for rain; the interior of the vessel was damp and smelt unbearably of bilge and the stale fumes of paraffin from the motor under the cockpit. Dennison cast his bag down philosophically upon a settee and opened the skylight. Then he investigated the food that remained mouldering in damp cupboards, collected the cans for the paraffin and methylated spirit, lowered them into the dinghy, and set off again for the shore.

He landed at the hard and walked up the village to the baker's shop. The baker himself came out of the back premises instead of the florid lady to whom Dennison had been accustomed.

"Afternoon," he said. "Two dozen buns and four small loaves, please."

"Afternoon, Mr. Dennison," said the man. He wrapped the bread in brown paper and wiped his hands upon his apron. " 'Tis some weeks since we saw you," he said mechanically.

"Some time," said Dennison. He paused, and added gently, "I was most awfully sorry to hear about your loss."

The remark broke down some barrier of reserve; the baker leaned upon his counter and broke into a flood of simple lamentation. Dennison let him run on. "And I tell you what I've been doing," he said. "I've been gcttin' together all the snapshots we took of me and 'er and the kiddies, and binding them up into a little book"—he indicated the size—"just like that. My sister Emily what lives with me now said I didn't ought to do it, an' I ought to think of other things. But I don't see that—do you? I didn't want to let it all go .., and I wanted them photygraphs."

Dennison nodded. "You want to make the most of what you've got," he said. "One doesn't get so very much."

He returned on board with a heavy heart, spread a bun with marmalade and ate it in lieu of tea, and made his bed of blankets. For a time he busied himself setting things in order in the saloon, then he went and stood in the hatchway and took a long look at the weather. It was threatening. He decided not to make sail but to run down to Calshot under the engine and anchor for the night. Under sail it would be a dead beat out against the tide. The rising flood lapped mournfully along the sides of the vessel.

He made the dinghy fast astern, started his engine, slipped his mooring, and stood away down the river, cold and dispirited. Vessel after vessel, perch after perch, passed him with maddening slowness; the thick brown water churned into a loathsome foam at the edge of the mud-flats. Slowly he drew up to the red cage buoy at the mouth of the river, and headed across the water to Calshot. By the time he arrived, it had begun to rain in a misty, undecided fashion; he brought up and dropped anchor in about two fathoms under the lee of the mud-flats, not very far from the castle and the air station. There was nothing to do on deck; he remained in the cockpit till the vessel had found her position and was riding quietly to her anchor; then he went below and trimmed the riding light.

He spent an hour working in his little vessel, an hour of occupation and comparative happiness that carried him on till after dark. He trimmed even' lamp in the ship, filled the tanks of the engine, cleaned the Primus stove, set his riding light on the forestay, pumped out the vessel, unpacked his bag and arranged his clothes in the tiny cupboards, put the patent log in a safe place with a bottle of rum and another one of turpentine to keep it company. Then he laid his supper very elaborately, and supped off cocoa, bully beef, and a boiled egg, topping up with bread and jam. He scraped the mildew off the top of the jam and deposited it in the slop bucket; he was particular about what he ate.

After supper he washed up his plates, emptied the slop pail over the side, and saw that his riding light was burning properly. Then he went below and tidied up the little forecastle. And then there was nothing else to be done.

He lit a pipe, returned to the saloon, and produced a coil of new wire rope that it was his intention to turn into a new pair of bowsprit shrouds. But it was too dark to go up on deck and measure the length, so that all he could do was to splice one end of it round an eye and serve it, and in half an hour he was again at a loss. I desperation he turned to his charts and sailing directions, and spread them out upon the table. He knew them by heart; every light, every buoy, almost to every sounding upon the sheets. Outside the rain had set in in earnest and dripped monotonously on the deck, pouring in tiny cascades from the puckers of the mainsail at

each roll of the vessel. Below, everything was damp and clammy to the touch, with all the grim squalor of a small ship at sea. On deck there was little to be seen through the rain; the air station lay dark and deserted. A couple of seaplanes rocked lightly at their buoys a hundred yards away; in the other direction the water lapped steadily along the mud-banks, gradually vanishing with the rising tide. In the fairway an occasional steamer showed a light. He was quite alone.

Dennison slept badly, was early awake, got up, and was over the side by six o'clock. It was a threatening morning; a stiff breeze from the southwest with scud flying over the sky. The wind blew bitterly upon him as he scrambled on board again; he swore at it in futile rage. It was the worst possible wind for him, dead in his teeth for going west. When■ the tide began to run against it there would be a short, wetting little sea in the Solent. For a moment he thought of staying in the shelter of the Island, and abandoned the thought immediately in a miserable spasm of temper. He was damned if he'd change his plans.

He dressed and cooked his breakfast. He did not hurry; it would be useless to attempt to beat down the Solent without the tide under him, and the tide would not begin to run till ten o'clock. He breakfasted moodily, washed his plate, and set to work to cook a piece of steak which he would eat cold later in ' the day. He put the steak with some cold potatoes and half a loaf of bread in a large pudding basin, and hid it away in a locker in the cockpit. On such a day as this he would have little time for lunch, sailing single-handed. He thought that he would make for Poole if it proved to be a dead beat all the way. If he got a fair slant of wind at the Needles, he would run for Lulworth or Weymouth. Either course would give him ten or twelve hours' sailing and tire him out. He wanted to be tired.

He got under way about half-past nine with two reefs down, and drew out of the entrance to the Water. From the Castle Point buoy he could lay West Cowes, and crossed the edge of the Brambles in a smother of spray, battened down and huddling in his oilskins. It was his luck to get a wetting at the start. Everything on this infernal day was going to go wrong.

There were few yachts in Cowes; it was too early in the season for many vessels to be afloat. There was one big white yawl in the roads, of ninety or a hundred tons, with a spoon bow and a long counter. Dennison strained his eyes at her. There were men working on her deck, and he thought she was getting under way. He had not got his glasses on deck, and was afraid to leave the helm and open up the vessel to get them in so short a sea. He put her down as either theLaertes or theClematis, reached in nearly to the beach at West Cowes, and put about on the other tack.

The morning passed wearily away. With the tide under him he made fairly good progress down the Solent in repeated tacks. The big yawl had come out of Cowes and was following him down under her trysail; she had given him three-quarters of an hour start and was drawing up on him steadily. From time to time he turned to look at her, the only other vessel on the waters. She followed him up grandly, carrying her wind well. He was nearly sure she was theClematis; theLaertes would not have ridden the seas so cleanly. She had been a racing boat.

By one o'clock he was nearly up to Yarmouth. The deck was wet and glistening with the repeated spray; Dennison was cold and out of temper. He peered ahead into the murk and tried to imagine what sort of sea he would rind at the Needles. He wanted to get down to Poole if possible; at the same time he was experienced enough to know the futility of trying to beat his way down against a westerly gale. He determined to run out to the Needles and have a look at it. If he could lay a course for Studland he would carry on; otherwise he would put back to Yarmouth for the night.

Near the entrance to Lymington he put about on to the starboard tack.

The big yawl had practically caught him up, and was crossing to meet him from the other side of the Solent. It was evident now that she was theClematis, owned by a shipping magnate, Sir David Fisher; Dennison wondered vaguely if the owner were on board. She came over from the Island to intercept his course, gently parting the waves with her powerful spoon bow and making nothing of the sea that caused him such discomfort. He watched her admiringly as she drove towards him.

It became evident that she would pass very close across his bows. She approached him on the port tack, only one man visible on deck at the helm. Dennison held on his course; he had the right of way. She would have to bear away a little and pass astern of him; there would be no room for her to cross his bows.

The yawl held on her course. Dennison gazed at her incredulously for a moment; then realized that she was bluffing him. He was cold, hungry, and wet; the discovery sent a sudden flare of anger through him. Damn it, let her put her helm up and bear away! He held resolutely to his course.

As the vessels closed, all the emotions of the last two days burst out in a sudden fit of temper. He was damned if he was going to give way to anynouveau richewho cared to barge about the Solent displaying his breeding. There were too many of the swine about. The fellow had only to get one of his men on deck, slip his mainsheet a little, and bear away. He had a full crew aboard; Dennison had seen them. He was damned if he'd give way.

He held on his course.

When she was fifty yards away, he realized that a collision was imminent. He thought rapidly. He might avoid an accident by throwing his little vessel into irons—with the risk of falling on to theClematis, in which case he might be liable for the damages, as not having held his course. He was cold and wet; at the sight of the gleaming paint and winking brass of the yawl, he flamed into .a passion. By God, he'd let her have it. She should get what she was asking for. He'd do her as much damage as he bloody well could, and leave her to pay for both. He stood up in the cockpit the better to con his vessel, and held the helm steady.

The sharp white bow crossed his bowsprit; at the last moment theClematis flung up into the wind with a slatting of heavy canvas. It was too late. Dennison held his course, blazing with temper. His bowsprit missed her main shrouds, crossed the bulwarks and stove in the motor launch that she carried on her deck. The bobstay parted with a sharp twang, and the straight stem of the little cutter crashed home upon the glossy whiteness of the topsides, splintering and gouging.

"God," said Dennison, "that's marked the swine!" and ran forward to separate the vessels.

The deck of the yawl was suddenly alive with men. A man at the bows shouted something, and somebody was heaving on the end of his bowsprit to push him clear. He ran forward of the mast. At that moment the bow of theIrene dropped into the trough of a sea. Her bowsprit crashed down on to the bulwarks of theClematis as she dropped; then the heel of the spar leaped from the deck and came inboard waist high, straight for Dennison. He jumped backwards by the mast, and brought up against the main halyards. He put out his hand to ward the blow. A wire plucked agonizingly at his thumb, and then the spar was grinding its way along his ribs, slowly, intolerably. Suddenly the vessels freed and lay pitching together for a moment, grinding their sides; the spar jerked and fell heavily at his feet. Dennison caught blindly at the halyards and dropped slowly to his hands and knees beside the little capstan, sweating with pain.

From a great distance voices came to him, and the tag end of a sentence, "—he's hurt, I tell you. Look at him." Then came a silence; perhaps they were looking at him. Of course he was hurt . . , the bloody fools. There was a heavy thump on his deck, and the same voice:

"No, one's enough," and another thump. Then came silence, an end to the bustle and confusion, and a thin voice in the distance bellowing something about Yarmouth Roads.

Dennison raised his head; immediately the staysail began to beat about him cruelly. Somebody came forward and helped him to his feet.

He looked around him, drawing a deep breath, and winced at a fresh spasm of pain along his ribs. Away up to windward the yawl was lowering her trysail with a six-foot rent in it, laying to under her foresheets and mizzen. There was a man in yachting clothes beside him, and a sailor of theClematis at the helm. His hand throbbed and ached intolerably. He turned aft. "Bear away," he shouted. "Slack out some sheet. Let her away—right away. So. All right, keep her at that." He turned to the man beside him. "Help me get a line round this spar, or it'll be on top of us." He fumbled clumsily with his left hand.

The sailor hailed him from the cockpit. "Cam'ee aft, sir, 'n take her, 'n let me come forrard."

"Right," said Dennison. He thrust his injured hand between the buttons of his coat and stumbled aft to the little cockpit. He took the helm and sat down, numb with pain, anxiously watching the sailor moving deftly about the wreckage in the bows. With the help of the gentleman, a lean, cadaverous fellow perhaps twenty-eight or thirty years of age, the sailor got the foresheets off undamaged and passed a line round the spar. Then he turned aft.

"Better start yure motor going, sir, 'n get the sail off her, 'n head up for Yarmouth, I rackon?" His voice ended on the rising note of a question, in true West Country fashion.

"I know about motors," said the lean man, and jumped down into the cabin, working under Dennison's directions. The sailor came aft.

"Where by tyerstu?"he inquired. He was a genial old man, with a pleasant fatherly air, wearing gold earrings. Dennison indicated the locker. "Be 'ee hurt bad, sir?" He clucked his tongue in sympathy. "Deary, deary me! Sir David will be tumble upset."

Dennison smiled faintly. "Who was in charge of your vessel?" he asked.

The sailor paused. "Why, skipper had her," he said. "We was all belowtudinner, 'n he wastugive us a call when he wantedtu putabout." He continued with his work for a minute, and then, "Rackon skipper don't take much account o¹the little boats," he said.

"Reckon he don't," said Dennison grimly.

The motor began to throb, and coughed steadily into the water. The lean man appeared in the hatchway. The sailor called to him and instructed him in the two halyards; Dennison threw her up into the wind and they lowered the sail, wrapping it roughly with the tyers.

They came aft. "I say," said the lean man, "I'm extremely sorry about this. We were in the wrong, weren't we? I don't know much about it, I'm afraid—I'm only a passenger."

The sailor spat into the sea. "Rackon we was wrong," he observed.

They settled down to a wearisome run to Yarmouth. Dennison unbuttoned a couple of buttons of his oilskins and gently drew his hand out. The skin was unbroken, but it was swollen and discoloured already, and the thumb stood out in an uncouth attitude. The trouble was evident.

"Can you put that back?" asked Dennison.

The lean man took the hand in his and whistled. "What bad luck," he said. "All right. It'll hurt like hell for a minute, you know."

He took the wrist in one hand and the thumb firmly in the other, and gave a savage tug at it. Dennison bit his lip, but the thumb had gone back into its normal position and he could move it a little. The stranger glanced at him keenly. "What about a quick one?" he said. "All right, I'll get it."

He disappeared below, and emerged presently with a tumbler half full of rum. "I nearly as possible poured you out turps," he said. He watched Dennison as he drank. "Did that bowsprit hit you when it came back? I thought I saw it."

"It grazed my ribs," said Dennison. "I've got too many clothes on for it to do much damage."

TheClematis was three-quarters of a mile ahead, nearly into Yarmouth. "Come below and let's have a look," said the lean man. "We can get a doctor in Yarmouth."

Dennison obeyed and relapsed into comparative comfort on his bunk, confident that his vessel was in safe hands. He was accustomed to slight injuries; it was not the first time that he had stretched himself thankfully on his bunk, to watch the lamp gyrating in the gymbals while the vessel hurried for the nearest harbour. The lean man pronounced his ribs intact, made him comfortable, and went on deck. Dennison fell into a doze till he was roused by the bustle of anchoring.

The lean man appeared in the hatchway. "Look here," he said. "Stay where you are for a bit. I'm going to hop off to theClematis in your dinghy and tell them about it. I think you ought to have a doctor to look at you. I want to see Sir David. I won't be long—half an hour at the most. The chap will be on board if you want anything; he's tidying up the mess forward."

"All right," said Dennison.

The stranger got into the dinghy and rowed off to theClematis. He gave the painter to one of the hands and mounted the ladder; at the top he was met by an immense red-haired man in plus-fours, broad-shouldered and massively built.

"I say, Rawdon," said the lean man. "Where's Sir David?"

The red-haired man raised his head and looked at him for a minute in bovine fashion, accentuated by his china blue eyes. Then he broke into a slow smile. "Having a word with the skipper in the saloon," he said, in a soft little voice that contrasted oddly with his bulk. "1 wouldn't go down just yet."

They fell into step and paced together up and down the deck. The lean man gave his companion a brief account of the state of affairs on board theIrene. Presently he was interrupted by the owner, who came up from below, followed by a crestfallen young officer, who went about his work without a word.

Sir David walked to meet them. "Mr. Morris," he said, "Is that young man much hurt?" He was a man well on in life, clean-shaven, with silvery hair and the hard features of the man who knows exactly where his interests lie. "I can't tell you how sorry I am that this has happened. I've cruised for very nearly thirty years, and I've only once done such a thing before." His eyes turned expressively towards the young skipper. "That was under similar circumstances," he said.

The man that he called Morris gave an account of Dennison's injuries. "He tells me that this is his first day out of a ten-days' cruise—single-handed," he said. "He lives in London."

The baronet frowned, and fixed theIrene with his eye "Can he manage by himself?"

"I shouldn't think so—not for a day or two."

Sir David turned sharply from theIrene. "All right," he said. "Then we must manage for him. I'll get a doctor off to sec him. Then if it's only rest he wants, we can have him aboard here. I'll have his vessel towed to Cowes for refitting. She'll take about three days. By the time he's fit, she'll be ready for him."

He glanced at the hole stove in the varnished side of the motor launch. "My launch must go ashore," he said. "We'll run back to Cowes tomorrow. This young man can go in the companion stateroom." He turned to the lean man. "I wonder if you would mind getting the doctor?" he said. "In my name, of course. I'll have you put ashore. Keep the boat and take the doctor off at once if you can get one. I'll go aboard his vessel and see him when you get there. What is his name?"

"I don't know," said Morris.

"The vessel?"

"TheIrene."

Morris went on shore, rowed by a sailor; Rawdon and the baronet turned and went down into the saloon.

The owner gave a few brief instructions to the steward about the preparation of the vacant stateroom. Then he turned to Rawdon. "A most unfortunate business." he said. He went to the bookcase and picked outLloyd's Register ofYachts,laid it on the table, and turned the leaves. "Here we are. Irene—Irene—Irene . . , this is the one, I suppose.Irene wood-cutter, seven ton, twenty-seven foot waterline, paraffin motor, built 1903, Luke. Owner, P. Dennison."

"That sounds like her," said Rawdon.

The other did not reply; Rawdon glanced at him. He was frowning and staring absently at the bulkhead. "P. Dennison," he said. "Peter Dennison. It would be odd if this was one of them turned up again." He left his guest and crossed to one of the settees, dragged the seat cushion from it, and disclosed a locker beneath. He opened it; it was filled with bound volumes of old yachting journals. "P. Dennison," he muttered.

He selected one covering August 1911, laid it on the table, and opened it, turning the pages rapidly. He paused at the programme of a long-forgotten race. "Here we are," he said.

I though we should find it.Runagate, fifteen ton,
helmsman
P. Dennison."

He ran his eye rapidly down the letterpress. "Here we are," he said. " 'Much interest will be centred on theRunagate, whose helmsman, P. Dennison, is only sixteen years of age.'"

"That's interesting," said Rawdon.

Sir David closed the volume and replaced it in the locker. "I must go off and see him," he said. "You won't mind if I leave you?" He moved to the foot of the companion, then paused and came back into the saloon.

"I say, Charles," he said. "Do you mind if we have him on board? I take it that if he comes he will be in bed for a day or so."

His guest knitted his great brows together in a frown.

"I don't mind if you don't," he said. "I don't see that it matters very much if he's the right sort. And I suppose another couple of evenings will see us through."

"I suppose so," said the baronet. He glanced out through a port over the water to the town, gabled and russet brown. "I don't quite like to let him go to a hotel, and that seems the only alternative. Anyway, I'll see what he looks like. If he's the Dennison I'm thinking of, he won't be any trouble to us."

He went on deck. Morris had reached theIrene and was helping the doctor on board. Sir David called for the cutter's dinghy, and followed him.

He boarded theIrene with some difficulty, and descended into the tiny, crowded saloon. There was no room for more than two to stand; on his arrival Morris perforce sat down on the settee opposite Dennison, who wished heartily that the lot of them would clear off and leave him to sort himself out. Sir David stood at the foot of the ladder and apologized in grave, incisive sentences for the part his vessel had played in the encounter. Dennison responded lamely.

It transpired that he had no plans beyond an idea to "stay here for the night and clear up the mess in the morning."

Sir David listened gravely. "1 should like to suggest an alternative scheme," he said. "If you would care to come aboard theClematis for a day or two, we have a vacant stateroom. In that case, I could tow your vessel to Cowes tomorrow, to refit at Flanagan's. That would take about three days; after that perhaps you would be fit enough to continue your cruise."

Dennison smiled wryly. "Flanagan won't have any men to spare," he said. "Everybody's fitting out now. He wouldn't look at a little job like this."

The other did not smile. "Flanagan will do what I tell him," he said quietly; at the suggestion of power Dennison opened his eyes. "I can promise that your vessel will be ready for sea by the time you are able to sail her."

The doctor broke in with commendations of the scheme. "You won't be able to do anything with that thumb for several days," he said. "And if I were you, I'd stay in bed fora day or so to rest those muscles. You'll be glad enough to lie up once they begin to stiffen."

The truth of that statement was already painfully evident to Dennison. He made no more demur, but accepted the invitation. The meeting broke up; Sir David went on deck followed by the doctor. Dennison was left with the lean man.

"I say," he said. "Was that Sir David Fisher?"

"That's him," said Morris. He yawned, and rose from the

settee. "Look here, I'd better pack up some things for you.

Don't move; tell me what to get." "Damn it," said Dennison. "I haven't any clothes fit towear.

"No ladies," said Morris. "There's only four of us on board. Sir David, his secretary, Captain Rawdon, and I. We can fit you up with anything you want."

So Dennison left theIrene and was rowed aboard theClematis. He paused on deck to pass a word or two with the skipper, who thawed a little as they wagged their heads together over the damaged launch. A joyous remark leapt to his mind, "If I were you, I'd carry your launch on the port side in future," but he refrained from uttering it, and went below with Morris to a little stateroom beside the door into the saloon, and was put to bed in a luxurious little berth with soft blankets and, incongruous on a yacht, lavender-smelling sheets. By and by the steward came and rigged a little table that hung on to the side of his berth, and brought him China tea and buttered toast, and several varieties of cake. After that, being warm and replete for the first time that day and moderately comfortable so long as he kept still, he went to sleep. It was dark when he awoke; the lean man came with a supply of novels and an electric reading lamp that plugged into a socket in the bulkhead. Dennison was accustomed to read in his bunk in a similar manner on board theIrene where there was a niche behind his pillow dark with the grease of a hundred candle ends. Presently came dinner.

After dinner he made himself comfortable for the night, turned out his light, rolled painfully on to his uninjured side, and tried to sleep. It was a long time before he succeeded. His side gave him considerable pain, and there was a dull ache in his thumb intensified by the gentle pressure of the bedclothes. Now that he was alone and the events of the day were over, he had time to think; the memory of the last few days came flooding back into his mind, and were the more poignant for having been forgotten. He was in pain, and he was cruelly disappointed; he lay quiet in the darkness, till the darkness seemed to enter and become a part of him; a darkness that, perhaps, would never quite leave him—as it had never quite left Lanard. There would be alleviations, and the sting would go; other friendships would crop up, other ties and interests—but things would never quite be the same again as they had been in the Golden Age, when he had worked four years for Sheila.

Perhaps the gods are merciful. At all events, they relented a little in the case of this young man and gave him a puzzle to occupy his attention, much as a hospital nurse will give a puzzle of cardboard, glass, and silver balls to a child in pain. Dennison's cabin opened on to the companion, close beside the saloon door. From the saloon came a ceaseless murmur of voices from the men inside; they had settled down directly after dinner and had talked incessantly, a rumbling discussion deadened by the bulkhead. About ten o'clock, there was a step on deck, and someone came down the companion jingling a tray of tumblers; the nightcap, thought Dennison. The steward opened the door into the saloon and the conversation became audible. Sir David was the first to speak.

"Nine hundred and fifty miles," he said. "We will take that as the maximum, then. All right, put it down over there. Now before we fix definitely on that distance, I want you to consider, Mr. Morris, whether you are quite satisfied with the margin of safety in taking your departure."

The lean man spoke. "I think so," he said slowly. "I can't say quite definitely till I've tried it, of course. It looks all right on paper. You sec, you give us a kick behind that gives us thirty-eight miles an hour, and then there's a hundred and ten feet clear before—"

The door closed again; the steward passed aft to the other staterooms, whistling softly as he prepared the beds.

Dennison lay wondering, shaken for the moment from his misery. What on earth had they been talking about? Taking a departure might have reference to navigation—but margin of safety? And who was to deliver the kick behind that would give "us" thirty-eight miles an hour?

The water lapped quietly along the side of the vessel beside his head; along the timbers came the faint chunking of the rudder, swaying beneath the counter in the tideway. Dennison stirred slightly in his bed, found a comfortable position, and fell fast asleep.

Over the cabin door, upon the glossy whiteness of the bulkhead, was a quaint device; the word"clematis" traced in red stones, each circular and set in a little oxidized ring. The morning sun streamed in through the port and lit up the bulkhead, making the red stones glow with sombre fire. Dennison lay sleepily in bed and watched the shifting light upon the deck beams, reflected from the water. Things were beginning to stir about the vessel; there was a sluicing and scrubbing on the deck above his head, voices in the staterooms aft, and presently somebody passed his door, whistling, went up the companion, and plunged over the side. Dennison lay listening to the silvery tinkle of the bubbles rising against the side of the vessel; he put down the bather as the lean man.

Morris poked his head in at the door as he passed back to his cabin; a tousled figure in a dressing gown.

"How d'you sleep? Oh, that's good. I hope you noted my dive just now—I'll carry the marks to my grave, I shouldn't wonder. It's years since I bathed before breakfast—not since I left Oxford."

He returned in half an hour or so, dressed and impatient for his breakfast. Dennison was already halfway through his. "Ours isn't ready yet," said Morris. "But I'll have a lump of sugar—thank you. To bridge the chasm."

He sat down on Dennison's clothes. "Do you usually sail alone? I should have thought it was taking a bit of a risk.

"I sail alone a good bit," said Dennison. He was feeling more himself this morning; he glanced shrewdly at the other. "One isn't run down every day, you know."

He was not mistaken in his man; Morris called him by an unparliamentary name and took another lump of sugar. "In point of fact," he said, "it was you who ran us down, from what I saw of it."

"I say," said Dennison. "Are we going to Cowes this morning?"

"I believe so. Going to tow your vessel up to Flanagan's yard."

Dennison frowned thoughtfully. "Sir David must be a pretty good man if he can get Flanagan to touch theIrene out of her turn," he said. "Do you think he has any idea of the rush there is in the yards at this time of year? "

Morris seemed to hesitate for a moment; when he spoke, he picked his words carefully.

"1 wouldn't have any anxiety on that score," he said. "We've been doing business with Flanagan recently, and Flanagan will certainly do this for us. But as it happens, it won't be necessary for him to make any alteration in his general routine. Sir David is fitting out another yacht at Flanagan's; all that will be necessary is for Flanagan to take one or two men off her for a few days. That is the course Sir David will advise."

"Another yacht!" said Dennison. "What is she?"

"A big racing cutter. TheChrysanthe."

Dennison started up in his bunk and propped himself on his elbow with a spasm of pain. "Cbrysanthe/"he said.

"Lord, I didn't know she was coming out again! Has he bought her, then?"

"I believe so."

"Chysanthe!said Dennison, and sank back again into his bunk. He knew the vessel well by repute. She had been built in 1912 and had appeared the following year at the principal regattas in the Big Class. At the outset of her career she had created something of a sensation by beatingBritannia onBritannia's day. As fashions went, she had been slightly under-canvassed, and had done little for the remainder of the last season before the war. Since then she had been laid up. Now, it seemed, she was to appear again.

"Another vessel for the Big Class," said Dennison at last. "The more the merrier."

Morris rose to his feet and opened the door. "I say," he said, and paused. "I'd better go aboard your vessel and clear up any valuables, hadn't I? Before we hand her over to Flanagan."

"I suppose so," said Dennison thoughtfully. "There's a pair of glasses in the rack in the cabin, and a sextant in the cupboard on the port side. You might have a look round and bring off anything that strikes you as valuable. Don't bother much—I've never had any trouble in that way."

Morris made a good breakfast, smoked a pipe, and put off to theIrene with a bag. He spent half an hour aboard the little vessel, looked through every cupboard, made a selection of articles of value, and returned on board. He found Rawdon on deck.

Morris walked across the deck and placed the bag on a chair. He beckoned to Rawdon with his head; the red-haired man strolled towards him. "What is it?" he said.

Morris spoke softly. "Things I brought off the little cutter," he said, "—valuables, before she goes in for overhaul." He opened the bag upon the chair and produced a miscellaneous assortment of objects one by one; a bottle of rum half empty, a pair of Zeiss glasses, a rolling parallel ruler, a few mathematical instruments, a sextant in a case, a prismatic compass, and a chronometer deck watch of navy pattern. The red-haired man stood by in perfect silence while Morris lifted out these articles one by one and replaced them in the bag. "There were a whole lot of books on navigation there, too," he said. "Nautical Almanacs and all sorts of other star tables—specialized things." He paused;neither of them spoke for a minute. "You see, it's practically all navigation stuff—all that's of any value."

He closed the bag and fell into step with Rawdon as he resumed his pacing up and down the deck. "What's your idea, then?" asked Rawdon.

"I haven't got one," said Morris. "Only it's—interesting. I don't mind telling you, I've been thinking a good bit about this matter of the navigator. We've been content to go on the assumption that it will be easy enough to get in an expert at the job when the time comes—and by the way, we ought to be thinking about that soon. That's a thing we ought to discuss with Sir David while we're here."

The older man glanced at him keenly. "I will be easy to get a good man," he said.

"Easy enough to get a good navigator," said Morris briefly. "Not so damned easy to get a good man." He stopped and faced Rawdon. "I know nothing about the sea," he said. "If we get into any trouble on the way and I only have some pie-faced theorist with me—we might very soon find ourselves in Queer Street. That's what I'm thinking about. The navigation itself is child's play—I could do it myself."

"I see," said Rawdon. He stood motionless for a little, meditatively caressing his chin with one great hand. "Well," he said at last. "You know you've got a free hand in that sort of thing. All Sir David cares about is getting the job done. That sort of detail is entirely our affair. Only—don't do anything in a hurry. We shall have to mention it to him before taking any definite steps in that matter."

They walked aft to the companion; Morris took the bag and went below to Dennison. The latter laid down his book as Morris entered.

"Ha!" he said. "Feeling twice the man I was. I'm going to get up this afternoon."

"Much better not," said Morris. "Here's your stuff. I brought off all that I thought was likely to get snaffled— glasses, sextant, chronometer, and a lot of odds and ends." He sat down and lit a cigarette.

Dennison peered into the bag. "And half a bottle of rum," he said. "It was nice of you to think of that."

Morris blew a long cloud of smoke, and laughed. "What do you use all those navigating instruments for?" he inquired. "You never go out of sight of land, do you?"

"Lord, yes," said Dennison. "Running down Channel. But you're quite right—one doesn't often need them. Last summer we went to the west of Ireland—we were four days from the longships to Cape Clear. I took a good many sights then—more for practice than anything else. Give me a fag."

"Did you make a good landfall?"

Dennison blew a long cloud. "Oh, yes," he said carelessly. "There's nothing in it, you know. We hit if off just about as I expected. It's not far, but we took long enough over it. Cat's-paws all the way across."

Morris gazed at him curiously. "I suppose you spend all your spare time doing this," he said. "Did you cruise at Easter?"

Dennison thrust his cigarette over the side of the bunk and flicked the ash on to the floor with a steady hand. "No," he said. "This Easter was the first I've missed since the war. I was staying with some people in Berkshire—a place called Little Tinney, just under the Downs. Do you know that part at all? Delightful country."

"I stayed a week-end down in that part of the world once," said Morris. "I forget exactly where Little Tinney is, but we weren't very far away. They fetched us from Didcot in a car; a chap who was at Oxford with me. People called Wallace."

Dennison glanced sharply at the lean man, and smiled queerly. "I was staying with the Wallaces," he said.

"No—really? Do you know them well?"

"Not very well," said Dennison. "I met them both—Wallace and his sister, about four years ago, but I'd rather lost touch with them till—till this Easter."

Morris nodded. "Funny," he said. "I knew Jimmie Wallace quite well up at Oxford after the war; I often meet him in Town. My wife and I went down there one weekend—oh, about eighteen months ago. Charming girl his sister is!"

"Yes, said Dennison dryly. They chatted for a little, discussing the Wallaces and the house at Little Tinney. Then came a bustle on deck of getting under way under motor power, and of taking thehevein tow. Morris went on deck, and Dennison was left to his own devices, to his newly awakened memories of Little Tinney and all that was there.

But one thing puzzled him, eluding all the efforts of his memory. He was nearly certain that at some time or other he had heard Sheila speak of a man called Morris, and that she had mentioned some peculiar and outstanding fact connected with him. Cudgel his brains as he might, he could not recall the occasion or what it was that she had mentioned as peculiar about Morris, what it was that differentiated him from other men. There was something; of that he was quite certain.

The morning was calm and hazy, the tide sweeping down through the roads in placid swirls and eddies. Both vessels weighed anchor and got under way under their engines; then a line was passed to theIrene and she was taken in tow, her engine being of little use against the tide. In theClematis there sprang up a subdued, monotonous thudding that drove all coherent thought from the head and jingled the tumblers in the racks. She turned and stemmed the tide, and proceeded up the Solent, towing theIrene behind her in the manner of a dinghy.

It was nearly lunch-time when they dropped anchor in Cowes Roads. TheIrene cast off her tow and motored up the river to Flanagan's, where she berthed temporarily against a quay. From the deck Sir David watched her in, then turned and went below to pay a visit to his guest.

"Your cutter's safely berthed in Flanagan's yard," he said. "I'll go ashore this afternoon and see Flanagan about her. How are you feeling?"

"Well enough to get up," said Dennison. "Mr. Morris tells me you've boughtChrysanthe, sir."

The baronet smiled happily, and sat down on Dennison's clothes. "We should get some good sport out of her," he said. "My brother George always intended to make a bid for her—but he died. And it's only lately that I have had leisure to think about racing. For a man who is still at work, cruising should come first. Don't you find that so?"

"Every time," said Dennison emphatically.

The baronet glanced round the cabin. "I've had some good cruises in this vessel," he said. "Not very ambitious—but good holidays. I wouldn't like to part with her. As forChrysanthe, 1 shall sail her under her old rig this season. For one thing, there isn't time to change. But after that, I've been thinking of scrapping her gear and rerigging her Bermuda fashion. In a similar manner toNyria."

They plunged into an animated discussion of the technical details of the plan, of the questions of sail area, mast position,ansseaworthy qualities of the Bermuda rig. They talked for twenty minutes; then a bell rang for lunch. The baronet rose.

"Of course," he said, "we really know very little about her. We shall learn a great deal this season. It's a little early to discuss it before we've had an opportunity to try her paces."

He passed into the saloon and sat down to lunch in silence. "He's perfectly right," he thought. "She would take more ballast forward. 1 hadn't thought or that."

Lunch over, they smoked a pipe in the saloon, then called for a dinghy and went ashore. Morris wandered off to make some purchases in Cowes; Sir David and Rawdon made their way to Flanagan's yard. They passed in at the gates and strolled to the quay where theIrene lay, inspected her closely, and turned away. In the background, theChrysanthe lay on a slip, being painted, monstrous and ungainly.

The two men picked their wav across the litter to the ramshackle little offices. Sir David entered, knocked at a door, and went in, followed by Rawdon. At a roll-top desk was seated a stout middle-aged man in a suit of sad, plebeian grey, sipping a cup of tea, his feet up on a chair. At the sight of his visitors, he laid down the cup and rose ponderously to his feet.

"Good morning, gentlemen," he said. "You'll have come to look overChrysanthe? Getting along with her nicely now. Tell me, did you see the new hollow gaff has come in for her? 'Tis a beautiful gaff, and half again as light as the old one."

"I'd like to have a look at it," said the baronet. "As a matter of fact, I've brought a repair job. I ran down a small cutter in the Solent yesterday, I'm sorry to say, and took the bowsprit out of her."

"Do you tell me that now!" said Flanagan.

Sir David nodded. "I want her got ready for sea again at once," he said. "At once. You can take men offChrysanthe for her if necessary."

The stout man clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Deary me," he said. "Will we go out and see her?" He produced a dishevelled soft felt hat and crammed it on his head. "But it would be a terrible pity to take the men fromChrysanthe!"

They followed him from the office into the yard. He walked to the quay and glanced at theIrene. Then he turned to Sir David in obese amazement.

" 'Tis Mr. Dennison's little cutter!" he said.

"That's so. Mr. Dennison was slightly injured; he's with me in theClematis now. I want his vessel got ready for him by the time he's fit to sail her."

With surprising agility, the stout man dropped down on to the deck of theIrene and made a quick examination. Then he lifted the hatch of the little forecastle and disappeared below. In a minute, he was up on deck again, and on the quay beside them.

" 'Tis no great matter," he said. "Will it do, now, if I have her ready for you by Friday night?"

"That will do excellently."

"Is Mr. Dennison hurt bad?" inquired Flanagan. "I'd be sorry if anything was to happen to him."

He was reassured. "Well, well, well," he said heavily. "And now, gentlemen, you'll be wanting to have a look round theChrysanthe and in the big hangar?"

They walked in and out among the smaller, vessels to where theChrysanthe lay upon the slip. " Tis here that old Mr. Dennison—Mr. Peter Dennison's father that was—fitted out before the war," he said reminiscently."Héwas a fine sailor, he was. Do you mind the races they won in theRunagate, sir?" He laughed to mark the point. "They was a crew."

At the thought, the laughter died from his eyes; he walked a little closer to Sir David, and dropped his voice confidentially.

"Did you ever give Mr. Dennison the wheel on theClematis}" he said, in a voice that was little more than a whisper.

"No. He's in bed, sick. He's only been on board since yesterday."

The stout man in the shabby grey suit stopped and caught the baronet by the arm.

"If I was you," he said earnestly, "if I was you I'd give him a try-out. Give him a try-out while you've got him aboard, sir. I mind him as a boy, the finest youngster that ever I saw, before or since. The most promising, you might say. I mind him on theRunagate."

He drew the other closer to him. "Get him forChrysanthe, sir," he whispered. "You're after needing a helmsman; give him a chance, and you'll not regret it. Mind what I'm telling you now—you'll not regret it."

The baronet gazed at him steadily. "He's really good, is he?"

The stout man released his arm. "If I was to search from here to Ameriky," he said emphatically, "I'd not find you a better man." He dropped his voice again. "Give him a try-out round the buoys, sir, and judge for yourself. You'll not regret it."

They strolled on towards theChrysanthe. "I'll think it over," said the baronet. "Thanks very much, Mr. Flanagan, for giving me the tip."

Chapter 5

Morris walkedup from the slipway through the narrow little main street of West Cowes towards the castle, deep in thought. He was a man of moods and impulses, a man of quick decisions. He walked up to the castle and stood for a time gazing vacantly out to sea, to where theClematis lay in the Roads, then turned about and went to find the post office.

On the steps of the office he hesitated for a moment, then went out again and bought a penny timetable at a stationer's. In the street he consulted this, then returned to the post office and sent off two telegrams. His business finished, he strolled back towards the landing, and met the others in the main street, returning from Flanagan's.

They returned on board for tea; Morris went down to speak to Dennison. Dennison had not got up; in point "of fact, he had fallen asleep after a very good lunch, and when he awoke he found that it was so nearly tea-time that he decided to take his medical advice and stay in bed for the day. He greeted Morris cheerfully.

"I m going to get up tomorrow," he said. "I'd have got up this afternoon, only I went to sleep after lunch."

"As a door upon its hinges," said Morris sententiously, "so turneth the sluggard upon his bed."

"I wish to hell he did," said Dennison grimly. "This old side of mine's been giving me gippo whenever I move. Did you hear anything of theIrene?"

"They're going to have her ready by Friday evening," said Morris. "Though I don't think there's a chance of you being able to sail her by then. Let's have a look at that thumb."

The thumb was still swollen, though it was rapidly becoming normal again. "You can't do anything with that yet," said Morris, and you'll have to be jolly careful that you don't go and put it out again, if you go messing about trying to do too much. You don't seem to realize that you've just shaved by what might have been a pretty sticky crash."

Comprehension came to Dennison in a wave with the words; he remembered now what it was that Sheila had said about Morris. "In any case," he said, "I don't suppose I shall do much more sailing just at present. I only intended to take ten days off, and it will be a week by the time I get on board again, I suppose."

They chatted for a time, then Morris left him and went to his tea. Dennison was left alone, pondering the information that had come to him. There was a mystery on board theClematis; that was obvious even to him as he lay in his berth. There was something going on that was to be kept dark; Sir David was in it, and Rawdon and Morris, and probably Flanagan, from the way they had spoken of him. His curiosity was piqued; he had little else to interest him in his enforced idleness. He held this clue to the mystery; Morris was a pilot for experimental aeroplanes.

That was what Sheila had said.

Sir David paid him a visit after tea. Very soon, in some manner that he could not afterwards account for, Dennison found himself telling the baronet all about theRunagate and the four glorious seasons before the war when they had carried practically everything before them. Sir David fetched his bound volumes from the saloon, and they spent an hour and a half poring over the accounts of old regattas, recalling memories of the crack vessels of ten years before.

After dinner, he was left alone. It is painful to relate that he spent most of the evening endeavouring to interpret the confused murmur from the other side of the bulkhead, with little success. When the steward went in with the whisky, there was a lull in the conversation; Dennison learnt no more. Presently he dropped asleep, and was awakened by voices outside his door and the footsteps of the men as they went to their staterooms. He looked at his watch; it was half-past one in the morning.

Next morning when he awoke, Morris was gone, vanished away in the early hours to catch the paddle boat from Cowes. Rawdon came in to Dennison before breakfast, and explained the circumstances in his soft little voice, strangely out of keening with his red-haired bulk. Morris had had to go up to Town on business, he said, and would be back that evening.

"I think I'll get up after breakfast," said Dennison.

Morris caught the first boat from Cowes and proceeded to Southampton and London, breakfasting on the train. He reached Waterloo shortly after eleven and walked over Charing Cross bridge. On the Embankment, he paused for a moment before a hoarding on which a brand of face cream was advertised ,by the portrait of a girl in evening dress. It reminded him of his wife.

He made his way across Trafalgar Square and up Regent Street, loitering to kill time. Half-past twelve found him in Oxford Circus; he looked at his watch, and took the Tube to the City.

He turned out of the station, walked a hundred yards or so down a side street, and entered a large block of offices. On the first floor he turned in at a door labelled "Inquiries." A girl rose from a typewriter.

"Mr. Wallace?" said Morris.

The girl led him down a long corridor, knocked timidly at a door, and ushered him into an office in which the Great Man spent his days behind a portentous desk.

"Cheer oh," said Jimmie. I won't keep you a minute. Get a chair. Miss Haynes! Get these sent along to Mr. Anderson. Tell him that if he'll endorse them, I'll get them off this afternoon." He handed her a sheaf of papers.

The door closed behind her. Wallace swept the litter on his desk to one side, and gazed critically at the door. "She's getting fat," he said. "You should have seen her when she came . . . The sedentary life, 1 suppose." He pushed aside his papers, checked, picked out one that had caught his eye, glanced it over, and threw it with the others. "Heigh-ho," he said. "Time for lunch—or near as dammit." He got up and fetched his hat from behind a screen. "Come on," he said. "There's a sort of eating club just round here that I usually go to. I got your wire yesterday."

They entered the club and sat down to lunch. Morris broached his subject with the soup.

"I say," he said. "You know a man called Dennison, don't you?"

He happened to be watching the other's face, and was vastly surprised to sec the effect that his question made upon the other. Wallace laid down his spoon and gazed at him in simple wonder. "Yes," he said, "I know a man called Dennison. But 1 had no idea he was a friend of yours."

Morris crumbled his bread. "I only met him recently," he said. "Two days ago, in point of fact. But he told me that he knew you and—well, frankly, I came up here because I wanted to find out one or two things about him."

Wallace wrinkled his brows in perplexity. "You want me to tell you about him?" he inquired.

"That's it." Morris paused to consider his words. "As a matter of fact, it's rather a curious story, and it's all mixed up with—with a business deal that I'm afraid I can't tell you very much about at present. But the main facts are these. I've been yachting in the Solent as a guest on a biggish vessel. The owner and my firm are acting together in this deal, and part of it means that I've got to chuck a stunt."

"1 see," said Wallace attentively. "Flying?"

Morris nodded. "Well, we had the devil of a lot of work to get through, and it was very desirable for us to be near Cowes to do it. So for the last week or so we've been living on board the yacht and working pretty hard in spasms. Well, the day before yesterday, we were cruising down the Solent on a dirty sort of day. While we were at lunch, there was the hell of a row alongside, and when we got on deck, we found we'd run down this chap Dennison in a little cutter, and knocked him about a bit—not badly. He put his thumb out and got a nasty whack on his ribs. His vessel was disabled, so we took him on board while she's being repaired; as soon as he's fit, we're going to push him off again."

"I see," said Wallace. "He's on board now?"

"Yes. I'm going back there this evening. But as soon as I saw him, it struck me that he had certain qualities that—that we could very profitably work into our scheme. In fact, he seems to be just the man for our job. Well, the trouble is that this thing's got to be kept pretty dark for the present, so we don't want to tell more people about it than we can help. Sir David insists on that. I don't mind telling you that theonly people in my firm who know anything about it are the directors and myself."

Wallace nodded slowly.

"Well—you see the difficulty? We want to know rather more about him before we can let him into it so far as to put a proposal to him. That's why I came up today."

There was a short silence.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you very much about him," said Wallace at last. "I first met him four years ago, and I met him again last Easter, when he stayed with us. I think he's a thoroughly sound lad, if that's any good to you."

"That's exactly what I do want to know," said Morris. "That's the main thing. Now, what's his job?"

"Sea lawyer," said Wallace laconically. Morris raised his eyebrows. "Maritime solicitor."

"I see. Is he married?"

Wallace glanced shrewdly at his guest. "No," he said. "He'd like to be, but there seems to have been a hitch about that. A regrettable incident. Is he in very deep mourning?"

"Not that I've noticed," said Morris. "Who's he supposed to be in mourning for?"

"Sheila," said Wallace briefly. He did not seem very much inclined to add to this information.

"I see," said Morris. "His matrimonial affairs don't affect our business much, of course. I only wanted to know what ties he has."

"I don't think he's tied in any way," said Wallace. "I think he's quite his own master. He talks of going out to Hong Kong in the autumn."

"In the autumn? We shall have done with him by then."

"Probably have done for him, too," said Wallace, "if I know anything of you and your schemes. Mad as coots, all the lot of you."

Morris laughed. "One more thing," he said. "Do you know anything about his Navy record, or what sort of a navigator he is?"

"Not a word. He can navigate his yacht all right. And he broke his leg in the war jumping into the water to pull a chap out. He was reckoned a good officer by his men. That's all I know about his Navy service."

"I sec," said Morris. "Well, that's really all I want to know about him." The conversation drifted to general subjects and reminiscences; at the end of three-quarters of an hour Morris rose to go.

"I'm damn sorry I can't tell you more about this stunt," he said. "For the moment it's got to be kept pretty quiet. But look here, come and have dinner with me one night before it comes off, and I'll tell you all about it. It's really rather interesting. I'll let you know later when to come."

"Right you are," said Wallace. They moved towards the door. "I suppose you don't know anyone who wants a thousand sewing machines, do you? Or we can do you a very nice line in inferior Continental pig iron . . . No? Oh, well, cheer oh. See you sometime."

Morris left the building, glanced at his watch, and walked up Cheapside. The business that had brought him to London was concluded. He had telegraphed to his wife that he would meet her for tea at her club; he made his way towards the West End.

He noticed his little car outside the club, found his wife, and sat down with her to tea. He had married a girl whom he had met at one of the Oxford women's colleges; Helen, the daughter of Sir James Riley. She was considered by her family to have married badly; a censure that she bore with equanimity. In her life she had only known two men that she respected; one of whom was her cousin and Morris's friend, Malcolm Riley, who had been killed while flying a racing machine a year or two after the war. Morris himself was a pilot of considerable skill, but incidentally to his work. He was a mathematician, and held a position of some importance in the Rawdon Aircraft Company, flying their aeroplanes on test.

He picked a piece of buttered toast from the dish and held it in mid-air between finger and thumb. "I've found a navigator," he said. "At least, I think I have." Briefly he described Dennison's arrival on theClematis.

"Is he a nice man?" inquired his wife.

Morris munched steadily. "Not bad," he said at last. "Yes, I think you'd like him. Funnily enough he knows the Wallaces; I've just been asking Jimmie Wallace about him. I got quite a good account, so I'll see if he'd like to take it on. Oh, yes, and Jimmie told me another thing. This chap's been endeavouring to establish a lien upon Sheila, but there's been a hitch in that."

His wife smiled. "He would have to be a very nice man to be good enough for Sheila," she said.

"That's the funny part of it—he is a very nice man. Sheila will probably go and marry some little squid with a made-up tie and a banjo." He paused reminiscently.

He accompanied his wife to the door of the club after tea, and watched her get into the car to drive home. He lived in the suburbs on the border of the aerodrome. He stood watching her a little uneasily.

"Go carefully," he said.

He was one of that great class of Englishmen who love their wives and trust them unquestioningly with their money and their honour, but are apt to hedge a little over their motorcars. The girl made a grimace at him and laughed, then let in the clutch and moved away. Morris watched her out of sight, a lean cadaverous figure, turned away, took a taxi to Waterloo, and made his way back to Cowes.

Dennison got up stiffly after breakfast and went on deck. From the saloon came a low hum of voices; Sir David was busy with his secretary, a hard-driven bespectacled young man. Dennison spent the morning in the deckhouse, smoking and yarningwith Captain Rawdon.

He asked no direct question, but he was pretty certain that he could place Rawdon now. During the war he had had several friends in the Flying Corps and, though he had taken little interest himself in aeroplanes, the name Rawdon seemed to recall memories of these men. At one time they had been enthusiastic over a machine called, if he remembered rightly, the Rawdon Rat, and later there was another one, the Rawdon Ratcatcher. It was not a very common name, and, coupled with the fact that Morris was an aeroplane pilot, seemed good evidence to Dennison. It was evident to him that they had some very secret experiment on hand; he guessed that it had to do with aeroplanes and that it was maritime. However, it was certainly no concern of his. It surprised him rather that they had taken him on board.

He went ashore with Rawdon after lunch and walked, a little painfully, to Flanagan's yard to inspect theIrene. They met Flanagan and inspected the little vessel. Then, rather to his surprise, Rawdon left him to himself with the intimation that he would meet him at the jetty at four o'clock, and disappeared with Flanagan along the yard, deep in conversation. Dennison finished his examination of his vessel and walked up into the town, a little puzzled at the relations between Flanagan and Rawdon. He had had no idea that Rawdon was interested in yachts. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that the relations between them were not those of yacht owner to builder but more intimate, suggesting some closer tie between them. Besides, to the best of his knowledge, Rawdon was not a yachtsman.

He decided to leave theClematis next day and to put up at a hotel till theIrene was ready. Now that he was able to get about, it was evident that his presence on the vessel would quickly become an embarrassment to them; they were engaged in some matter that they wished to keep dark. It was clearly his place to leave them as soon as he could. For these reasons, and because his side was hurting him more than a little, he retired to bed after tea, and so did not see Morris on his return, about nine o'clock in the evening.

He heard the dinghy come alongside and bump gently at the ladder, and steps over his head. The door of the saloon opened and he heard Sir David's voice outside his cabin.

"Mr. Morris? Have you had dinner?"

Morris came down the companion. "I had it on the train," he said. "A very comfortable journey."

"Right. Come in and tell us how you got on—after you have taken off your things."

Dennison heard Morris move into his cabin and presently emerge and pass into the saloon. For a moment the door was left ajar.

"Well," he said cheerfully. "I found out quite a lot about him—all that's of any importance, I think. It seems he's quite all right. I asked—" Then the door was closed and the remainder of the sentence lost.

Dennison was immensely disgusted. Though scrupulous, he was a man of keen natural curiosity and he had been eager to hear before he left the vessel exactly what it was that they were engaged upon. He felt that this would be the last chance that he would have, and it had produced nothing that was of any interest whatsoever.

He decided to leave the vessel after breakfast next morning, and dropped off to sleep while the others still sat talking in the saloon, talking away the quiet hours of darkness.

Dennisongot up for breakfast and was first into the saloon in the morning. The table was laid and the coffee steaming in the pot, sending a little column of vapour up into a patch of sun. On deck the movements of a couple of men attracted Dennison's attention; he glanced up through the open skylight and saw that they were taking the cover off the mainsail. He was concerned. He had planned to leave the vessel that morning and go ashore in Cowes to wait for theIrene. If they were making sail, he would not have an opportunity to leave them.

It's their funeral, he thought.

His side began to pain him a little, and he moved to the settee to sit down. It was littered with loose-leaf books full of typescript, a number of loose sheets of pencilled calculations, and one or two great sheets of engineers' blueprint, evidently cleared from the table by the steward when the time came to lay the cloth. Dennison cleared a place to sit down on, and wedged himself into a corner with a cushion, to consider the position. It would be devilish inconvenient if they were to leave Cowes that morning.

His eye fell on one of the blueprints, open upon the settee beside him. He glanced at it curiously, bewildered by the strangeness of the white lines on the blue paper and by the wealth of minute detail. Gradually, he began to comprehend what he was looking at, and to glean some idea of the outline of the scheme. It was a picture of a flying boat apparently furnished with wheels outside the hull, perched at one end of a long horizontal structure of steel girders. Close beneath this structure lay a long cylindrical machine, apparently something in the nature of a hydraulic or pneumatic ram.

There was a sound of voices outside the door and Raw-don entered the room, followed by Morris. The latter greeted Dennison, crossed to the settee, and began to tidy up the papers.

"I forgot we left all this stuff out last night," he said. "Mr. Evans usually tidies it up—Sir David's secretary—but he turned in early last night with a headache."

"There's no need to put it away on my account," said Dennison. "I mean—that sort of thing is a sealed book tome.

Morris laughed. "There's nothing here that we mind you seeing," he said. He turned to Rawdon waving the blueprint in his hand. "Where do we keep the arrangement of the catapult?"

"In the table drawer, I think," said Rawdon. Dennison rose to his feet as Sir David entered the room.

"Good morning," said the baronet incisively. "A little late, I'm afraid.Âgood morning for a turn down to the Forts and back. A fine sailing breeze." He turned to Rawdon. "You are spending the morning ashore at the yard?"

"I think so," said Rawdon. "They're putting the engine in this morning—and Flanagan was worrying about his slipway, too. I'll go ashore after breakfast, before you get under way."

Here Dennison broke in and diffidently set out his plan to leave the vessel. He proceeded in an embarrassing silence; the suggestion that he had thought would be so welcome to them was evidently received with something approaching consternation. Presently Dennison stopped talking and looked from one to the other, utterly at a loss. Sir David stepped into the breach.

"I shall be very disappointed if you leave us, Mr. Dennison," he said genially. "As a matter of fact, I was hoping that you would take the helm this morning and wake up my crew for me. These are some of the men that I shall put in theChrysanthe. Of course, we can't do very much till we get her in commission. I thought of having a turn round the buoys, though, to try and rub some of the corners off."

Dennison flushed with pleasure. "It would be a great treat to me," he said. "But I must tell you, I've never handled a crew before—racing, that is, and I've never happened to sail a vessel with a wheel."

"The skipper does the hazing," said the baronet equably. "You just tell him what you want. As for the wheel, I shouldn't think that ought to worry you very much. Really, I should be very glad if you would take her round a course this morning."

After breakfast, Rawdon went ashore alone. He paused on the jetty and watched his boat row back to theClematis, watched it hoisted on the davits and secured. Then the mainsail crept to the hounds and took shape, to the accompaniment of a slow rattle of chain from the bows. Finally she broke out a jib and bore away towards the mainland, cutting her anchor and crowding on sail as she went, white and majestic in the sunshine. Rawdon turned and made his way to the yard.

Three hours later Flanagan pointed out to Rawdon theClematis returning; he left the large hangar and walked to the jetty. The vessel did not come to an anchor as he had expected, but dropped her topsail and lay to outside the Roads, lowering a dinghy. Presently it arrived at the jettyihe embarked and was rowed out to the vessel.

Morris met him at the gangway. "Sir David thinks of running down to the Needles this afternoon," he said. "It's a great day for sailing." They dropped into a pair of basket chairs. "I say, that chap Dennison's nuts at this game."

Rawdon glanced round the deck. "Where is he now?" he asked. "Have you seen him yet?"

Morris shook his head. "Not yet. He's in the saloon, talking to Sir David about theChrysanthe. Sir David's all over him—it was an extraordinarily good show, apparently. Even I could see he knew the job all right." He paused, and laughed suddenly. "It was the funniest thing out. When he took over, the skipper sort of stood over him to tell him what to do. It took this chap just about five seconds to put him in his place, and then they stood together side by side. I never heard him give any orders, but now and again he'd say something confidentially to the skipper and I tell you—the skipper got those fellows moving all right. Fair made me sweat to watch 'em." Rawdon smiled. "Where did you go?" "Twice round some buoys, down about as far as Ryde. It was really rather odd to see him standing there sort of whispering shyly to the skipper now and then, and the men swearing blood as a result. There was that spinnaker, for instance ... I couldn't judge the whole nicety of it, of course. I noticed one or two things. Whenever we had to cross the tide between two buoys, he set a course directly we came about that looked as if it would miss the other buoy by half a mile. Well, each time I watched the compass, and I swear he never altered course a degree, but we hit the buoy to within ten yards each time. And another thing I noticed was how smoothly it all went. No fuss, no waste of time, no talking—a clean turn at each buoy and away on the new course like a knife. I'm really very glad to have seen it." They lunched, and after lunch got under way again.

Morrisarid Dennison went up on deck; Sir David and Raw-don stayed in the saloon with their cigars.

Rawdon glanced at the other. "So he did well?" he said.

The baronet blew a long blue cloud. "Very well," he said quietly. "Very Veil indeed. It's not the first time that Flanagan has put me right."

Morris and Dennison went up on deck and sat in the basket chairs, watching the Island slip past them. Dennison was tired and willing enough to rest; the act of standing all morning had made his side ache painfully, though he had not noticed it at the time.

"You must be an authority on this coast," said Morris. "I suppose you know pretty well every harbour and inlet in the south."

Dennison lit a pipe. "I know a good many," he said cautiously.

"Do you know Padstow?"

"Not very well. I've been in there two or three times. But one doesn't cruise up that coast much, you know. Padstow and Bideford are the only two possible inlets, and they're neither of them much fun to get into except in clear weather. Bideford dries out pretty well at low water, and Padstow's got a shocking great sandbank right across the entrance. You have to go carefully into both of them."

"You know the west coast of Ireland, too, don't you?"

"Lord, no," said Dennison. "I spent one summer holiday mucking about between Baltimore andValentía,but that's all."

A gull swooped down upon the vessel, made a circuit or two, approached the stern, hovered for a moment, and dropped accurately to perch on top of the mizzen mast. Both watched it intently.

Morris laughed. "Slow landings," he said. "It's having the nerves next to the muscles, I suppose. We'll never get it quite like that."

The helmsman waved his arm and the gull flew away. Dennison turned to Morris.

"Your business is flying, isn't it?" he said. "I remember Miss Wallace mentioned you once."

"That so?" said Morris. "Yes, my business is flying. Though I work chiefly on design stuff now, under Captain Rawdon. I fly most of the Rawdon machines on test."

"One sees a lot about commercial aviation in the papers," said Dennison. "It doesn't pay, does it?"

"No," said Morris. "It doesn't pay to run a regular service—yet. That's why it's called commercial, of course. A pious hope."

He tilted his chair back. "I can talk till tea-time on that subject, of course," he said. "Probably bore you stiff. But as for civil aviation, it's coming, you know. It's coming faster than you think. One never hears anything in the papers of the steady progress that is made—one only hears of the accidents. But nowadays you can fly fairly reliably twice a day to Paris or Brussels or Rotterdam at any time of year. And that's something." He paused.

"And of course, the mails . . ." he said. He paused thoughtfully and then continued, picking his words with care.

"Communications . . ." he said. "It seems to me that communications are the whole keynote of present-day politics. One has means for limited rapid communication already, of course, by wireless and cable. But think what it would mean if one could carry bulky documents rapidly. Or people. Think what it would have meant if in August 1914 we could have had every Dominion Prime Minister in London within a week. By air."

He leaned back in his chair and ran on. "Suppose we could expedite the mails to America. Suppose we could start a mail service to America that only took five days instead of seven, and suppose we were able to run that service with, say, eighty per cent regularity. Do you see how we should improve our position with America? Look at the pull that it would give us over every other country in Europe. Suppose we could do that by surprise, and suddenly one day reduce the time from London to New York to five days—and we can save more than two days."

Dennison glanced at Morris attentively. "I am no financier, but anyone can see that it would benefit us very greatly—if it could be done," he said.

Morris gazed over the blue water to the steep bluff of Ehypt Point astern. "It could be done tomorrow," he said absently, "—it could have been done last year. The Atlantic was flown in eighteen hours, years ago." He sat up and became animated. "The real point is this," he said. "Can it bedone as a commercial proposition? Is it likely to pay? That's the point."

Dennison considered for a moment. "I always understood," he said, "that a scheme of that sort couldn't pay, because it was all that an aeroplane could do to carry its own petrol across the Atlantic, without any cargo."

"Seventy years ago they were saying that of steamships," said Morris. Dennison was silent.

Morris continued after a moment. "We don't propose to do it by direct flight. It isn't possible at present; we can't hope to make that a paying proposition. The scheme that we intend to try, briefly, is this. We carry a flying boat on a liner, mounted on a sort of catapult arrangement. The aeroplane is loaded with a small amount of urgent mail which pays a special surcharge. When the liner is in mid-Atlantic, about a thousand miles from her destination, she turns full speed into the wind and catapults the machine off her deck. The machine then flies to land, taking just about ten hours over the thousand miles. In that way we hope to be able to carry five hundred pounds' weight or urgent cargo."

Dennison gazed at him attentively. "You say you are going to try this?"

"In about six weeks' time. One of Sir David's vessels is in the Clyde now, being fitted with the catapult. I'm doing it, with another man—a navigator. We do it on the way home —it's really a sort of a full-dress rehearsal. They shoot us off one morning about nine hundred and fifty miles out at sea, and we fly to Padstow. The natural thing would have been to have flown to Ireland, of course, but Sir David won't have that. He doesn't believe in basing any financial calculations on the stability of Ireland just at present."

Dennison regarded him steadily. "It sounds to me an uncommonly risky experiment," he said.

Morris smiled, and picked his words carefully. "It has its risks," he said, "and one would be a fool to deny them. The first is that something may happen to us in the launching and we don't get a clean start from the deck. In that case we flop down into the water under the vessel's bows—and get run over. They won't be able to dodge us, you know. The only other point is that we may have engine failure or run out of petrol, and have to come down. We minimize that by keeping directly on the track of the liner so that she comesalong and picks us up—if we float so long." He blew a heavy cloud of smoke.

"What made you choose Padstow?" asked Dennison.

"Because it's the nearest harbour, and because it's usually quite empty of ships. Falmouth was out of the question—too crowded and too public for this rehearsal. As a matter of fact, all this is being kept very dark at present. It may be convenient to publish the fact that we shall land at Falmouth later, if there's much stir about it all. But it will really be Padstow."

Dennison nodded in silence.

Morris tossed his cigarette over the rail and turned to him. "I don't know if you are wondering why I've told you all this," he said evenly. "As it happens, there's one point still incomplete. We're still without a navigator. I've been wondering if you would care to take it on."

"I see," said Dennison slowly. "Are you the pilot?"

Morris nodded. "I ought to tell you one thing," he said. "This is a serious matter for us, and we didn't want to let a complete stranger in on it. I went up to Town yesterday and got a sort of a reference of you from Jimmie Wallace. I hope you don't mind. It was more a matter of form than anything else—to satisfy Sir David."

"How do you know I can navigate?" asked Dennison suddenly.

"For one thing, you told me you could. But as for that, the navigation will be very simple. What I really want is someone to work out courses for me in the air, look after the petrol pressure, and the food, and all that sort of thing. And, if we get a chance, to get a sight or two to check our position. The navigation is very simple—I could do it, myself, only I shall be flying."

"I should be all right for that," said Dennison absently.

Morris rose to his feet. "Anyhow," he said, "think it over. After dinner this evening we'll talk about it again, if you like. There's a lot that you ought to know before you decide. Sir David will be able to put the points of the scheme before you much better than I can and he'll go into everything with you—money, for one thing. There's a pretty good fee attached to it. But I told him I'd tell you about it first."

Dennison rose and walked aft with him. "Thanks verymuch," he said. "I'll think about it." He mused a litde.'I've never seen a flying boat close to."

Morris laughed. "Soon put that right," he said. "We've got her in Flanagan's yard."

They cruised on down the Solent till tea-time, then came about and returned to Cowes in the dusk. They came to an anchor in their old place in the Roads just before dinner, and, after dinner, sat down to the usual round-table conference. This time, however, Dennison was of the party.

He had already made up his mind. He was tired of working, willing enough to go wandering for a little. He was willing enough to take some months' leave from his office and come in on this experiment. He listened absently while Sir David laid the matter before him. It was dangerous—he knew that. That was beside the point. This was a thing that would amuse him. It was different. He was free to turn his interests where he liked; there was nobody that had a better claim on him than himself. If he had been engaged, or married—it would have been different. But now he was free, and this would be good fun and would give him something to think about.

He roused himself. "The real object of this experiment," Sir David was saying in his level, incisive tones, "is to demonstrate that the flight is a commercial proposition. This journey hasn't merely got to be completed somehow or other— that's no good at all. We know that it can be done. We know that it is possible to launch a machine from a ship and to fly a thousand miles on it. What we want to find out is if that can be done under the ordinary, normal conditions of service. That is, the flight has got to be done to a timetable. The aeroplane has to arrive at a stated place at a stated time, carrying a stated load. It has to do that under any weather conditions that happen to be prevailing—except a hurricane. If these conditions cannot be fulfilled, then the experiment is a failure."

Rawdon broke in. "The weather conditions aren't of any great importance at this time of year," he said in his soft little voice. "The flight will take place at the end of May and—as you know—the prevailing wind in the Atlantic is westerly. That, of course, will be a help in this flight—not a hindrance. A moderate westerly breeze would be the best thing possible for you."

"That's practically a certainty at the end of May," said Dennison absently.

He offered evidence of his navigating ability, and they discussed the details of the scheme for a little. Finally Sir David stated the fee that they were prepared to give for a navigator.

Dennison opened his eyes. It seemed a very large sum for a very little work.

"It's like a recruiting poster," said Morris flippantly. "See the world for nothing. It's a joy ride. A first-class trip to America—and halfway back."

There was a pause. Dennison felt called upon to say something.

"It should be pretty good sport," he said.

Chapter 6

It tooka good deal to destroy the serenity of Jimmie Wallace's outlook upon the world, but undoubtedly something had happened seriously to impair it. He sat idle at his desk in the palatial little office, chewing his penholder, about a month after Morris had visited him to inquire about Dennison. He was worried. He had dined with Morris the previous evening, when Morris had pledged him to secrecy and had broken to him the news of the wildcat scheme upon which he and Dennison were engaged. It had not altogether been news to Jimmie. Already rumours were beginning to circulate about the City of the great benefits that might accrue if such a scheme were suddenly to come into operation as a regular service; already there were guarded expressions of these rumours in the press. He had not been long in connecting these tales with Morris's visit to him. Here was confirmation of the whole thing.

He sat in his chair and chewed his penholder morosely. He did not know how this would affect his family—if at all. He did not know exactly what had passed between Dennison and his sister, though he was capable of making a tolerably good guess. He did not know to what extent his sisterwas responsible for what Dennison had done. In these first days he had got a very clear idea of the danger of the enterprise. He was a keen motorist, and knew sufficient about aeroplanes to appreciate the position. The success of the flight depended upon an ordinary petrol engine running steadily at full power for ten hours, without attention, under indifferent conditions. Well, it might. It was about a fifty per cent chance. And then there was the launching . . .

He did not know what he should say to his sister—if anything at all, seeing that he was bound under a pledge of secrecy to Morris. So far he had told her nothing of Dennison's connection with Morris; he had thought it wiser to leave the whole subject alone. The more he thought of it, the more clearly he perceived that there was only one thing that could have sent Dennison flying off the deep end in this manner, and that, one thing was Sheila. This was a very disturbing conclusion.

What would happen, for example, if the flight were to fail and Dennison were to be killed? He knew that his sister was very much attached to Dennison. On the other hand, what could he do about it? He could not very well go to his sister and tell her what Dennison was up to and make her pull him back by the coat tails. For one thing, she wouldn't be able to do it. Nobody could pull Dennison back when he had set his mind on a thing, and he was evidently far too deeply involved in this matter to withdraw.

Perhaps it would be better to wait and hope that Dennison would not be killed.

"Oh, damn it all," said Wallace irritably.

It was in an irritable mood that he travelled down to Berkshire. On the way it struck him to■wonder whether by any chance Sheila knew of what Dennison was doing. It was just possible that he was wrong all along the line and that she was in touch with Dennison. He did not think that was the case; Dennison had departed too suddenly. Moreover, Morris had reported him taciturn on the subject of the Wallaces. In any case, he would see if he could not find out 'more how the land lay during this week-end. If he got an opportunity he would sound his sister on the subject.

Sheila met him with the car and drove him home to tea. Antony had departed three weeks previously for the Engadine, and had written her a rambling, incoherent letter, enclosing a little wooden bear. She had written back to him atf   n

needless length, a letter almost equally diverse in which she mentioned everything but Dennison. With the exception of this correspondence she had been quite alone since Antony's departure; her father ranking as somebody to talk to but not company. Wallace, as they drove home, found her far more subdued than usual, and mentally raised his eyebrows. Clearly, it would pay him to go carefully.

It struck him that she looked tired. It would be * good thing if he could get her away for a holiday; it was absurd for her to spend all her life at Little Tinney.

They had tea in the library. After the meal was cleared away they sat gossiping for a little before the fire; Wallace decided to seize his opportunity. He leaned back in his chair and commenced to bore her to distraction with a long account of the family investments in China-. He gave her full details of each stock in turn with the history of each company, and the date the stock had come into their possession, the price of purchase and at the present time, the yield, and the prospects of improvement or otherwise. From that he passed to an appreciation of the political situation in China, with especial reference to, its effect on certain companies. He noticed that she was growing restive, and smiled covertly to see her smothering a yawn. Finally he passed to the (fictitious) desirability of having an independent observer on the spot.

"I've been wondering lately whether Dennison would care to do anything for us in that way," he said thoughtfully, and smiled again to see her suddenly stiffen to attention. "He might be able to send us a weekly cable with certain information. It would be very much to his own advantage." He was watching her closely, but found time to reflect, What utter rot I'm talking. Still, she knew very little of business methods.

"It sounds a very good idea," she said. "Why don't you write to him?"

"One might do that," said Wallace. "Where does he live?"

"He's in rooms," she said. "I've got his address upstairs. It might be nicer if youwent and saw him one evening. '

"Have him to dinner one night," said Wallace. 'When's he going out?"

She did not answer. He glanced at her and saw that she was not looking his way, but staring into the fire. Presently she turned and met his eyes a little wistfully. "Idon’tknow," she said. "I don't think he ought to—a bit." She glanced at him again, and this time he noticed a slight quivering of her lips.

Lord bless me, he thought in alarm. I believe she's going to cry.

"Please, Jimmie," she said. "I want to tell you about it."

He sat up in his chair. "Why, of course," he said kindly.

The girl slipped from her seat on to the floor beside his feet, and sat with her back against his chair, facing the fire so that he could only see the back of her head.

"I don't think he ought to go out to China," she said rapidly, "and he wanted me to marry him and I wouldn't." Though he could not see her face, Jimmie knew that tears were very near.

"I guessed as much," he said equably. He ran his fingers down through her soft hair and pulled her ear. "What are you going to do about it now? Seems to me that you've got yourself into a mess and you don't know how to get out of it. Want me to assist, I suppose."

There was a pause, but when she spoke again he knew that the danger was over.

"It's not a mess at all," she explained. "Only sometimes— one gets worried over it all. It's having nobody to talk to. It was all right while Antony was here, but now . . . You see, I knew as soon as Peter came back that he wanted to ask me to marry him. You remember when he came; that first evening I knew quite well—I think he wanted me to know. And then he told me all about going out to Hong Kong, and I knew that the only reason he was going out there was because it—it gave him a chance to get married, and he wanted that so badly. And then he went away, and I had time to think it all over."

She turned from the fire and glanced up at him. "Jimmie," she said earnestly, "he wouldn't be happy in Hong Kong. It wouldn't do. He's not that sort. He'd be miserable out there—I know he would. I found out that—he doesn't really want to go a bit. It was only—only for me that he was taking it." She turned back to the fire and resumed her old position. "And directly I knew that I—I sort of knew that it was up to me, you see, and if he spoilt his life and gave up all that he cared for, it would be my fault."

She paused, and played a little with his shoelace. When she spoke again it was so softly that Wallace had to listen intently for her words. "A man isn't like a girl, you know," she said, almost to herself. "A girl when she marries is quite happy with her home, and her children, and she doesn't want much else. But a man is different. He's like a little boy that has to have his toys .., a man has to have his toys, and if you take them away from him you—you just kill him. The round of golf, or the club, or—or yachting. Once he gets really fond of a toy .., if his wife takes it away from him she can never make it up to him, however much she loves him. It's just gone, and you can't replace it with anything else." She paused, and repeated piteously, "She can never make it up to him."

"I suppose that's so," said Wallace.

The girl nodded. "I know that's true," she said simply. "And then, it was pretty obvious that it was up to me to get him out of his mess. Because he really was going to make a frightful mess of things and I sort of felt—I felt that it was up to me to get him out of it all. You see, if he'd gone out to China as a junior partner in that firm, he couldn't have chucked it after a year or two if he didn't like it. He'd have been there for keeps. And so, when he asked me, I told him I was afraid of going to China and I couldn't marry him if he was going out there. I was pretty sure he wouldn't go out there without me. And I think he'll rout about now and find a job in England that we can marry on, and then he'll come back again." She paused, and then, "I just couldn't let him give it all up for me, Jimmie. I had to have a shot at—at piloting him out."

"I see," said Wallace gently. "How did he take it?"

For a while the girl did not answer. "He was so sweet about it," she said at last, very softly. Then, "Oh, Jimmie," she said piteously, "it was four years since I'd seen him, and he remembered all that time and came back just the same. I—I didn't know men ever did that sort of thing, except in books."

For a moment Jimmie Wallace had an eccentric impulse to lean down and kiss his sister—an action that he had not performed since he was four years old. Manfully he beat it down, but fell to stroking her short, fine hair as they sat together in the firelight wondering . . , wondering . . .

What on earth was he to do about it all? And what if Dennison were killed?

That evening Dennison returned to his rooms in Chelsea. He had paid a flying visit to London previously, had told Lanard briefly what he had taken on, and had visited his firm of solicitors. He had had a long interview with the head of the firm and had managed to interest him sufficiently in the scheme to obtain the necessary leave. They were maritime solicitors.

Then he had returned to Cowes, and had lived for the month as the guest of Sir David on board theClematis, watching and taking his part in the arrangements for the flight. During that time the flying boat had been completed in Flanagan's great hangar, and had made several nights. Morris had flown her off the water alone on the first flight. Then he and Dennison had paid a flying visit to Farnborough, where they had had a lengthy consultation with two or three authorities on aerial navigation. They had then returned to Cowes and proceeded to practise what they had learned by taking observations in the air. During this month the catapult had been completed and fitted to a fast cargo vessel or the Fisher Line, theIberian. She was now on her way from the Clyde to the Solent. On arrival she was to take the flying boat on board for two trial launchings, after which she would pick up a cargo at Southampton and sail for New York. Dennison had returned to London for a couple of days.

"To make my testamentary dispositions, for one thing," he informed Lanard.

Lanard smiled sourly; the jest was not to his taste. He had seen nothing of Dennison for three weeks, when he had burst in one evening, informed Lanard of his part in the projected flight, and returned to the Solent. Lanard was dismayed; that Dennison of all people should go rushing off upon a mad scheme of this nature struck him as a very bad business. He summed the position up to himself in a trenchant phrase, clarified, perhaps, by the light of his own experience. Dennison was "on the run."

He blamed himself most bitterly that he had not gone with Dennison on theIrene. Then, if ever, Dennison had needed his friends about him most of all; Lanard had allowed himself to be put off. If he had been there, he thought, this would never have happened.

Dennison began to talk about theChrysanthe and her prospects in the coming summer. It was settled that he was to sail her in her races throughout the season; after the Eastern regattas and Cowes they were to go on down the coast with the object of getting in as much racing as possible to gain experience on the vessel. It would mean a good two months of it, said Dennison cheerfully.

"But look here," said Lanard. "What about your work? You're having six weeks' holiday now over this infernal American trip. You aren't going to get leave for theChrysanthe as well? If you aren't pretty careful, you'll find yourself upon the cold, hard world."

Dennison kicked the coals down into the fire. "The Lord will provide," he said calmly.

Lanard gazed hard at him. "Do you mean Sir David Fisher?" he said at last.

"Perhaps," said Dennison. "The sparrows and the crumbs—and the rich man's table, and all that, you know." Lanard had to make what he could of that, for he could get no more out of Dennison. He was in a queer temper.

Lanard picked upThe Times, and Dennison lit a pipe; for a full twenty minutes neither of them spoke a word. Then Lanard dropped the paper into a rustling heap beside his chair.

"What about Hong Kong?" he said.

"What about it?"

"Are you going out there?"

"Shouldn't think so," said Dennison curtly. "It was a damn silly scheme at the best of times. I turned it down."

"Exactly," said Lanard dryly. "But it brings us back to the immediate question—what do you propose to live on when your firm sacks you?"

Dennison grinned. "Probably on a yacht," he said.

Lanard knew very well that at times his friend was capable of displaying the rudiments of a subtle sense of humor; he considered this reply with some care. "Do you mean that Sir David's going to keep you all the year round simply to sail theChrysanthe in the summer?" he said. "It seems an optimistic view of the situation."

"Lord, no," said Dennison. "Whatever put that idea into your head?"

He was silent for a little, and knocked out his pipe against the heel of his boot. Presently he spoke again. "You're barking up the wrong tree," he said quietly. AH the time since the war I've been keeping my little nose to the grindstonebecause—because I wanted to get married. Well, that's all over and done with now. What's the use of going on working like this—in London? So long as I can keep myself . . . You called me a married man in embryo once. Well, a married man works like hell. But afterwards . . ."

He was silent. Lanard continued his sentence.

"Afterwards one settles down and goes on working," he said evenly. "One piles up comfortable things. One makes money, and that acts as an insurance against—mistakes. And presently one forgets, and one marries again."

Dennison broke in. "I'm damned if that's your creed," he said roughly.

The other considered. "It's the only reasonable creed," he said at last.

There was a silence. Lanard got up and went to the window and stood looking down into the lamp-lit street, in characteristic attitude.

"It's not my business to butt in," he said presently, without taking his eyes from the street. "That's why one does it, I suppose. It's always seemed to me that it's never fair to take a girl at her word—at first. It's so different for them. And they expect to be given a second chance—traditionally.'"

"I know," said Dennison. "They book their ticket at Cook's, return it after a couple of days, and a week later go and badger the life out of the clerks because they can't have it back again."

Lanard turned to him, his brow wrinkled in perplexity. "Which means?" he said.

"A journey to China, I should think," said Dennison, a little wearily. "The clerks haven't got any self-respect to lose, I suppose. But in this case, when the ticket was returned it was final."

He turned to Lanard. "You're barking up the wrong tree," he said again. "If I had the money I could get married tomorrow. I think I could probably count on being married next year if I wanted to be. I could probably afford it by then."

He paused. "The point is that I was turned down because I was going to China, and for no other reason at all. Well, you see—I was going to China for her, and if she couldn't come to China for me ... It was a sort of test case, you see. She cared—quite a lot. But not enough to come to China. That absolutely put the lid on it."

Lanard turned from the window. "I see," he said slowly.

"That being the case," said Dennison, "it wasn't any use going on. Marriage has to be everything or nothing, you know." He paused. "Sixpence for fourpence half-penny," he said very quietly. "It was a bad bargain."

He laughed suddenly, and there was a note in his laughter that Lanard did not care to hear. "I was done, all the same," he said, "because by the time I found it out, I'd spent the sixpence."

It was inevitable that the press should discover the experiment. They had kept the secret well, but as soon as theIberian arrived in the Solent with a peculiar superstructure on her forecastle, ill-informed comment and speculation began.

"The only thing that one can say," remarked Sir David, "is that we have been very fortunate that it did not begin before."

He stood in the chart room of theIberian with Morris and Dennison as the vessel proceeded down the Solent towards Spithead. It was early in the morning; the air was fresh and salt; the sun streamed in through the ports and fell in sliding patches upon the papers littered on the chart-room table. On deck was the catapult with the track laid down and extending over the hold to the forecastle, and on the catapult was the flying boat with Rawdon and the chief mechanic making a final inspection. There were to be two trial launchings that day; the first with no load at all, the second fully loaded.

Sir David turned again to the pile of newspapers. No statement had been issued to the press in regard to the flight, with the result that the graver journals barely referred to the matter, while the more democratic sheets seethed with inaccurate information about the "birdmen and their giant plane."

"Fair makes me retch," said Morris crudely. He was fortunate in that the identity of the crew had not yet leaked out.

The two technical papers dealt editorially with the matter. One regretted the paucity of information and was strictly non-committal. The other assumed a bolder attitude and gave a remarkably accurate forecast of the flight in the first paragraph. In the remaining three columns the discourse touched rapidly upon the deplorable condition of maritimeaviationand settled down with gusto to a tirade against the Navy, illustrated by anecdotes that should have been unprintable, finally declaring that dear old Clausewitz was right after all, and that all things worked together for good.

Finally, on the day that they sailed for America,The Times, in a leading article, dropped a heavy benediction upon the flight.

TheIberian pushed her way out between the twin forts and headed for the Warner and the Nab Tower. Presently Sir David and Dennison left the chart room and went up on to the bridge; Morris was left alone. On the first trial he was to fly the machine off the deck alone, after which he was to fly back and put down off Flanagan's yard. There the machine would be lifted on to a lighter, so that by the time theIberian returned, she could be hoisted on board again, for a second flight.

They passed the Warner. Morris moved across the cabin to the port and stood looking down upon the machine, ready upon its catapult. Above the pulsing of the engines and the wash of the sea, he could hear the pumps clucking and sighing as they charged the reservoirs for the pneumatic ram that would catapult him off the deck into the air ...

A mechanic climbed up on to the planes of the machine and commenced to turn a crank upon the engine; the propeller began to revolve, infinitely slow. It seemed incredible that she should start. Suddenly he heard a half-hearted spit; the propeller leaped forward and became half invisible, and a steady rumble told him that the engine was running. They were nearly up to the Nab.

Morris turned from the window and took his helmet and gloves from the table. He opened the door of the little house and stood for a moment in the doorway, looking back over the water to the Island. It was a warm, sunny day; the clouds were white and the sea was very blue. It was a day on which one could do anything.

He stood in the doorway and stretched himself. From below came the steady rumble of the engine. She runs very sweetly, he thought. She's better on the benzole mixture than the other.

As they passed the Nab, Morris was in his seat and running his engine up to its full power. Satisfied, he throttled down again. Rawdon stepped to the side of the machine and looked up at Morris in the pilot's seat above him.

"You all right?" he shouted.

The helmeted figure nodded cheerfully. "Quite all right."

Rawdon stepped back and stood with the engineer of the catapult by the gear that would release the machine. On the bridge, Captain Willett broke off his conversation with the baronet.

"All ready," he said. "All right—take the wheel, Mr. Mate." He moved down to the voice tube of the engine room and spoke quietly down it. "All ready now. Yes. Whack her up. Yes. All right."

The mate relieved a seaman at the wheel.

TheIberian turned into the wind, and immediately the difference became evident.

"This ought to help her off," said Dennison.

The captain was still at the voice pipe. He straightened up, leaned over the dodger, and waved to Rawdon. Rawdon signalled to Morris, who nodded in return; the note of the engine swelled to a roar, tremulously deafening. Morris raised his hand.

"Right!" shouted Rawdon to the engineer.

The machine leaped forward and shot away down the track. The ram came to the end of its travel with a dull thud and the machine ran rapidly down the deck. Some distance from the bows light appeared beneath the wheels; she touched again, then lifted clear. On the bridge the mate spun the wheel hard over; the vessel yawed wildly. But there was no danger of running down the machine. She lifted clear, put her nose up, and went up on a slant, levelled, and circled theIberian. They could see Morris wave his hand; then he took a course for the Island and dwindled into the distance.

The vessel returned to the Solent.

The machine was waiting in Cowes Roads upon a lighter when they got back; Flanagan had done his work well and quickly. A derrick was swung out and the machine was hoisted bodily aboard and placed on the catapult again before lunch, a little miracle of organized handling by slipshod-looking gentlemen in mufti. Then came the wearisome business of filling three-quarters of a ton of petrol into her tanks by two-gallon cans. The vessel lay at anchor; Morris and Dennison sat in deck chairs in the sun below the bridge, half asleep. The second trial was to take place after tea if themachinewere ready in time; this time Dennison would go with Morris.

The petrol cans jangled monotonously throughout the afternoon. Dennison turned in his chair and glanced attentively at the sky to windward. "Wind's dying, he said. "We shall have a flat calm after tea."

Both were well aware of the significance of this. A calm would make it more difficult for the machine to leave the deck—and this trial was to be fully loaded.

Morris closed his eyes. "There will be plenty of wind," he said. "Vertical . . ."

Dennison chuckled and relapsed again into his chair. Presently, roused by an indisputable snore, Morris raised his head and glanced at his companion. Dennison was asleep. For a moment Morris sat looking at him curiously, then he relaxed again into his chair.

The petrol was filled into the machine and five hundred pounds of ballast in sandbags was placed in her little hold, to represent the bags of mail. TheIberian weighed, and they had tea going down the Solent. At Spithead, Morris went on deck and found the mate. He drew him aside.

"Look here," he said. "You'll be steering her, won't you?" He paused. "Well, it's going to be a touchy business in this calm. I may have to jump her off before she's flying. If I do that, we shall probably flop down into the water. Look. I'm going to edge to starboard as soon as I'm in the air."

"I'll give her a cast to port," said the officer.

"That's it. But for God's sake, don't let her run off till I'm clear of the deck or you'll put us in the ditch. Keep her straight till I'm clear. And one other thing. Boats, and all that sort of business. Have them ready."

"That's arranged," said the mate. "Those two rafts astern. See? We cut them loose as we pass you."

"Right you are," said Morris. He returned to the chart room as they passed the Warner.

At the Nab they took their places, Dennison beside Morris in the little cockpit of the flying boat. Before them stretched the track, level to within a short distance of the bows and then sloping away downwards to assist the machine to leave the deck. It seemed very short.

The engine was run up, throttled again, and they settled themselves into their places. Dennison had flown in the machine several times before, and he was well accustomed to his position. He strapped himself in, settled his shoulders comfortably against the back of his seat, and waited, watching his companion.

Morris ran the engine up to full power and raised his hand. For a moment nothing happened; then suddenly the machine moved forward and began to hurtle down the track. The acceleration was terrific. It was painful; the seat pressed intolerably upon the back. Dennison's legs were suddenly drawn under his seat by an invisible agency; he gripped the side of the cockpit and fought to draw his breath. He glanced at Morris beside him, calm and motionless.

There was a thud as the ram came home, and they began to run along the track. Morris pressed the wheel forward and the tail of the machine rose so high from the deck that from the cockpit it seemed that she must catch her long bow on the track and turn a somersault. So she ran along. Dennison watched the track, eager and curious. There was none of that buoyant feeling that he knew must come before she could fly. She was fifty feet from the end—thirty feet. It was coming; she bounced more lightly. Ten feet.

Morris pulled the wheel back sharply with both hands; the rail dropped suddenly and they were in the air. Instantly he pressed the nose of the machine down and dived for the water a couple of hundred yards ahead, yawing a little to starboard. Dennison, watching themanœuvrewith detached interest, saw from the corner of his eye the hand of the air speed indicator creeping up and knew that the danger was over. Ten feet from the surface Morris checked the dive and flew along close above the water for a mile or so, then gently pulled the nose up. The machine responded sluggishly and climbed from the water; in a minute they had climbed perhaps a hundred feet.

On the bridge there was a general relaxation. As in all such affairs, the tension had been most severe among the spectators. The machine had run to the very end of the track and had then leaped ten or twelve feet into the air. As theIberian yawed to port, the machine had dropped slowly towards the water; then the fall had been checked and she had flown along in the manner of a cormorant for nearly a minute, barely clear of the water, rising not at all. Finally had come the gradual climb that showed that all was well.

The first mate wiped his brow and relinquished the wheelto a seaman. "I wouldn't go in that thing for a thousand pounds," he said fervently.

Morris flew the machine back along the Solent to Cowes and put down into the Roads. The machine sank down to the water at, perhaps, seventy miles an hour. She flattened out close above the surface and touched suddenly with a crash, a little shower of spray, and a great foaming of water beneath her bows Morris raised his goggles and wiped the spray from his face, then turned her and taxied her into Flanagan's slipway, where mechanics in waders were waiting to guide the machine as he taxied her up the slip upon her wheels.

Morris and Dennison returned to theClematis and lived in her for the next two or three days. During that time the flying boat was taken to pieces and crated, and placed in the hold of theIberian with the greater part of the catapult gear. It would be re-erected in New York, where the machine was to be rigged and placed ready upon the catapult. There it would remain till the vessel was approximately nine hundred and fifty miles from Cornwall. This was timed to be early in the morning of 2 June. A staff of mechanics would sail in theIberian.

TheIberian finished her arrangements and moved to Southampton to ship a cargo. Originally laid down as a passenger boat, the war had caught her in an early stage of construction. For a time, work on her had been suspended; then, as the need for fast cargo vessels became more evident, the design was modified to the exclusion of the great part of the passenger accommodation. By reason of the change, the vessel was cranky and ungainly, but she was fast, and for this purpose she answered admirably. In her the promotors of the venture had found the necessary speed with the privacy that they desired.

She was to take three days loading. Morris and Dennison returned to London and separated, to meet again at lunch with Rawdon and Sir David Fisher the day before the vessel sailed.

There was no business to be done. Everything had been settled; the arrangements for the landing at Padstow were complete. There remained only to make a good lunch and to drink to the success of the flight.

"Oh, rot that," said Morris. "We can drink a better one

than that." He raised his glass. "The success of the venture. Good dividends!"

Soon afterwards the party broke up. "We meet again at Padstow," said Sir David quietly. "The very best of luck."

Dennison walked a little way along the street with Morris. "I don't suppose it's any good asking you to dine with me this evening?" he said.

"Not the least," said Morris dryly.

Dennison smiled, a little pensively. "All right," he said. "Meet you on the ten-fifty at Waterloo, then?"

"Right you are," said Morris. He hailed a taxi. "Keep me a corner if you're there first. Cheer-oh."

He droveto Paddington and took a local train to his home in the suburbs. He lived in a house just outside the aerodrome, a little high-gabled, "New Art" house that he had built himself the year before. He had placed it well, overlooking the aerodrome, and had given himself a large piece of pasture for a garden. During the winter he had been very busy transforming a portion of this into a tennis court.

He had tea with his wife overlooking the garden. It was beginning to have the appearance of a garden at last; he surveyed it with some pleasure. His wife was a great gardener. When they had built the house they had decided that they would have a "proper" garden, and had straightway planned a garden of flowering trees and hollyhocks and cypresses and crazy pavement and a sundial. It was taking shape; it ran from the house to the hedge bordering the aerodrome, perhaps an acre in all. While he had been away, Helen had planted the bald patches in the lawns with grass seed.

He turned to his wife. She was several years younger than he, hardly more than a girl. "I say," he said, and munched steadily for a moment or two. "We ought to have a double cherry somewhere. We had one at school—it was just outside my bedroom window. Great."

"M'yes," said the girl doubtfully. "I don't know whether it would do in this soil."

"It would have a damn good try," said Morris firmly. "We'll look it up in the book of the words after dinner and see what it says."

He went upstairs, changed into old clothes, and spent the evening laying down great russet slabs of crazy-paving along one of his paths, while his wife scratched the turf and scattered grass seed. He worked well, and had finished several yards when his wife came out and stopped him.

"Time you went and had your bath, she said.

He straightened up and gazed at her affectionately, dusted his hands together, and trod heavily upon the last stone.

" 'The benison of hot water,' " he said reflectively. Then ingenuously, "Have we got a nice dinner?"

The girl laughed cheerfully, though she had little heart for it. "I'm not going to tell you what you've got," she said. "You'll enjoy your bath all the more. The pleasures of anticipation."

"I shall probably be able to smell it when I go indoors, anyway," said Morris. He did not move, but stood meditatively wiping his hands upon the seat of his trousers, surveying the unfinished portion of the path.

"It does seem a pity to leave it," he said. "I never seem to get any time at home nowadays."

The girl gave a little gasp. "I'll—I'll get Adams to finish it while you're away," she said.

Morris turned and took her arm, his grubby hand upon her white sleeve. "Don't do that," he said. "I want to do them myself."

"All right," said Helen. She drew him a little closer to her, and moved towards the house.

Morris lingered for a moment, and looked over his shoulder at the unfinished paths. "There's a lot to do yet," he said. "Still, we're getting on. And I shall only be away just over three weeks this time."

He turned to the house and walked up the garden arm in arm with his wife. "Then we shall have all the summer to get it into order," he said. "Only about three and a half weeks. That's hardly any time."

But the girl did not answer, and they walked on up to the house in silence. They went indoors and closed the garden door behind them. Presently light shone out from behind thin curtains in the leaded, casement windows; cheerful lights, such lights as are to be seen in the dusk from any prosperous little suburban home where the middle-class businessman takes his ease of an evening in the bosom of his family.

The sky turned slowly to a deeper blue than ever the Council of the garden suburb had dared to paint the dial of a clock.

Dennison sat in the smoking room of his club before the fire, a novel on his knee, a pipe in his mouth, and an empty coffee cup by his side. Outside there was a touch of frost in the air; he found the fire comforting. Though he had dined alone, he had put on a dinner jacket; he did not quite know why. It was half-past nine. He had made a good dinner, and he was very comfortable.

He could not read his novel. He had sat in the smoking room since dinner, smoking his pipe, watching the flickering of the fire, and wondering dispassionately whether he would ever sit there again. He had done sufficient flying during the past month to be able to picture the flight in his mind beforehand. He knew what the Atlantic looked like. He had had some experience of it in theIrene. He knew what the flight would be like. They would be catapulted from the ship in a similar manner to the trial flight, would climb slowly from the water upon a compass course. Then would come hour after hour of monotonous travel across the waste, deafened and stupid with noise, and listening all the time with morbid anxiety for a splutter in the roaring of the engine. For ten hours they would sit like that if they were lucky—ten hours of watching the long Atlantic swell ahead of them, mesmerized by noise, numb and deaf. At the end of that time land would appear as a line upon the horizon; he would have to cast off his fatigue, find out what land it was, and guide Morris to Padstow.

That was the programme.

Presently he got up and left the club. He turned down a side street into Pall Mall and walked along to the St. James's end. Outside the gate of Marlborough House there was a guardsman on sentry, stiff and erect; in the square the lamps were bright. It was very quiet. A taxi passed with a whirr and vanished into the Mall; the towers of the Palace were very straight and stiff.

One could not be afraid.

He turned up St. James's towards Piccadilly. Near King Street he was accosted by a very old man; a man with long white hair flowing on to his shoulders from under a battered, old-fashioned hat. From the folds of his cape he drew a sheaf of envelopes.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he said in a gentle refined voice. "But do you by any chance patronize the Turf?"

Dennison paused.

"I can give you a remarkably good selection for Ascot," said the old man. "1 can assure you that you may place every confidence in them."

"I'm sorry," said Dennison, "but I'm not a racing man."

"The Oaks?" hazarded the ancient. "I could put you in the way of a very considerable turnover upon the Oaks."

"I'm very sorry," said Dennison, "but I don't bet at all."

For a moment the old man gazed at him searchingly, incredulously. "Ah, yes," he said at last. "I see. You never touch it. You never touch it at all. Well, perhaps that is the better way after all." He moved aside. "Good night, sir. I'm sorry to have troubled you."

"One moment," said Dennison. "I never bet—I don't know enough about it to back my fancy. But—I am leaving England tomorrow. A long journey, and perhaps a dangerous one. I should be very glad if you would drink with me this evening."

The old man took the coins. "That is extremely good of you," he said. "May I ask if you are going far?"

"To America," said Dennison.

"Ah, yes," said the tipster. "I once visited America, but I did not care for the country. I wish you a prosperous journey, sir, and a happy return."

He held out an envelope. "You will take this suggestion for the Oaks?" he said. "I think it is a good one."

Chapter 7

It seemedthat Antony was ill. That was not an infrequent event and Sheila would probably have heard nothing about it until it was all over but for the loquacity of her cook. As it was the news was exact and recent, coming direct to Cook from the mother of the housemaid at the Vicarage. Mr. Antony was laid up again and was in bed at Oxford with a cold in his chest. His mother was very upset about it, and suspected that it was caused by his landlady neglecting to air the sheets.

At the time the news did not appeal very much to Sheila.

Antony was always getting ill, and Sheila had enough anxiety of her own to occupy her mind at this time. Since Dennison had left her she had had no word of him; that was nearly two months before. She knew that she must wait upon events; in all her trouble she was quite sure that he had given up Hong Kong. But—if only she could hear something of him. As the weeks went by she grew more anxious and more miserable; small inanimate objects seemed to combine together to irritate her, a conspiracy of pinpricks. The centre of this conspiracy was in her bedroom where things got in the way so that she trod on them and hurt herself. In some mysterious way her bed grew harder and coarser, so that she lay awake at night listening to things rustling and creaking about the room that had never rustled or creaked before. She realized that the trouble lay with her, and commenced to take a tonic.

But she had little thought for Antony and his ailments.

Gradually, however, the news of Antony's illness began to appeal to her. It was bad luck on him, just as the weather was getting nice, to be laid by the heels by a cold that would not go away. She knew how much he had been looking forward to the summer term, and now he was missing it all. In her loneliness, she recalled what good company he had been for the week after she had sent Dennison away; she began to think more of him. Antony was ill in Oxford, only eighteen miles away. She could quite easily drive over and see him.

"I'm sure I wish you would," said his mother. "He gets so tired of bed, and his friends come and sit on his bed all day so that the room is always full of tobacco smoke. Idontthink it's right of them to smoke in a sick room, do you? And they bring him such horrible things to read. . . ."

So she had lunch and took the big car and drove herself over to Oxford. She knew the town fairly well and had sometimes visited her brother when he had been up after the war. Immediately she reached Carfax she noticed a great change in the type of undergraduate. The bronzed and cheerful men that she had been accustomed to were gone and were replaced by pink-cheeked youths, callow and arrogant upon the pavements. Oxford was herself again.

Sheila drove on down the High, turned into Longwall Street, and drew up at Antony's digs. She rang the bell and asked if she could see him.

A stout lady in a print beamed at her in the doorway and ushered her up three flights of perfectly dark stairs to the room where Antony lay in bed. As Sheila entered she cast a quick glance round and was in time to catch the merriment dying from the faces of his visitors at her arrival.

Antony was sitting up in bed in a cardigan, a muffler round his neck. His hair was tousled and there was a feverish look about him. "I say," he said. "How perfectly splendid of you to come. Please sit down—oh, it doesn't matter about my clothes a bit. Or you can sit on the bed. Mrs. Williams!"

In some mysterious manner his friends had faded from the room. "Mrs. Williams! " said Antony.

The landlady stood in the doorway, her arms akimbo, a placid smile upon her countenance. "Yes, sir," she said comfortably.

"Mrs. Williams, I want you to give us tea in about half an hour." He turned to Sheila anxiously. "You'll be able to stay, won't you?" His brows knitted together. "Please." I shall want the China tea in my silver teapot, and the silver milk jug and sugar basin—the crystal sugar, you know. And buttered teacakes, and could you send out and get a nice chocolate cake with the fluffy sort of chocolate on the top. And thin bread and butter, and a little of the medlar jelly."

"All right sir," said the woman cheerfully. "You shall'avethem."

Antony lay back on his pillows with a little sigh and turned to Sheila. "It's so nice of you to have come," he said. "How did you get here? By car? Do you know, I was hoping that perhaps you might—I've been wanting to see you."

"It's simply silly of you to get like this in the summer term," said the girl. "How did you manage to do it?"

Antony smiled reflectively. "I think I'll tell you," he said. "It was such fun—worth every bit of it. I told my mother that it was the sheets not being aired, and that was rather unfair to Mrs. Williams because she really is most careful about the sheets, and of course I shouldn't have stayed here so long if she did that sort of thing. But it really was the 'Usterov Mcoterov'—that's a club, you know; the last first and the first last. It was such fun. We had a whole day of it.

"First of all we got up and dressed for dinner. And one man had a drink of warm mustard and water because he saidhe always did that before going to bed when he was drunk and he was sure that he was going to get drunk at dinner. But I think that was carrying it too far, don't you? And then we met and sat round the fire drinking coffee, and then we had the port. And then, at about half past ten in the morning, we went in to dinner and went all through it from the dessert to the soup. And then we had a cocktail and then we changed and had a bath. And at about one o'clock, we had tea, and at about five we had lunch, and about nine o'clock we had breakfast—bacon and eggs and kidneys. And then the others went and had the before-breakfast bathe in Parson's Pleasure. Only, of course, I couldn't do that, but I went with them and watched them. And there was such a heavy dew—the grass was wet with it, only I didn't notice it till I got home, and then I found that the legs of my trousers were quite wet. And next day I had this cold."

"Anyway," said Sheila, "you'll never forget that the first should be last and the last should be first."

"No—it's an awfully good lesson in humility, isn't it? That's what we all felt—it as such a good thing to do . . , and incidentally it was rather amusing."

They chatted happily till tea-time about books and pictures. Antony's epic poem had made some progress and he was much exercised in his mind as to what was to become of it. Sheila gathered that it was quite unpublishable, too long for Oxford Poetry, and he could not bear the idea of putting it away in a drawer with a view to publication in future years among his Collected Works. The talk revived Sheila; she felt more herself than she had done for weeks. Antony, however, had been quick to notice the difference in her and to mark the gradual brightening in her manner. Presently came tea, and after tea the broader outlook engendered by repletion.

Antony snuggled down a little beneath his bedclothes. He had been worrying over Sheila. He had hoped that she would come to see him; now that she was here he was prepared to employ every means in his power to reach a solution of the problem that had been puzzling him. He was very fond of Sheila, and it distressed him to see her unhappy. He threw an arm up round his head and ran his fingers through his tousled hair. "What's Dennison doing?" he inquired.

The girl avoided his gaze.  "I  don't know,"  she said indifferently. "We haven't seen anything of him." She picked up a book from the table and fingered the binding. "I do like these editions. They get them up so well."

"Do you know, said Antony, "I think you made a frightful mistake in sending him away. I do hope," he added, "that you aren't going to go away, but you may if you want to. But it would be nicer of you to stay and amuse me, and it amuses me to talk to you about Dennison. And it's very good for me, too. I've been thinking such a lot about you. I do wish you'd married him."

Sheila was dumbfounded. For a moment all that she could think of was—This serves me right for coming. I've brought this on myself. His last words threw her into a panic and brought back the worst of her fears redoubled. How much did Antony know and why—oh, why had he put it so definitely in the past tense? She remained silent.

"You know," said Antony, "when I was a boy I used to think I was in love with you myself. I found out later that I wasn't, of course. I don't think I'm capable of ever loving anyone better than myself, and you simply weren't in it beside me, you see, and so I knew that I couldn't be in love with you. And ever since I found that out I wanted to see you marry someone you really cared about, and who cared for you. And then it didn't come off."

Sheila found her voice. "I suppose you thought I was going to marry Peter," she said. "Well, how do you know I'm not?"

Antony gazed at her round-eyed. "But you sent him away!" he said.

"He'd have been perfectly miserable in China," said the girl.

For a moment Antony's brain worked rapidly, then he sat up in bed. "You sent him away because of that?" he said. "But didn't you tell him?"

The girl turned away her head. "Not about that," she said at last "I—I just told himthat I couldn't go to China. It wasbetter that way."

"I see," said Antony slowly. "But what's going to happen now?"

Sheila raised her head and smiled. "I think he'll poke about and get a job in England that we can marry on," she said. "And then he'll come back."

Antony lay back in bed and gazed out of his window.

Outside there were chimney pots, russet and black, and sparrows, and a great expanse of blue sky and white cloud. The girl, expecting some commendation, waited, and as she waited the smile died from her lips. Antony thought she had done wrong.

"He'll never come back," said Antony.

He turned to her before she could reply. "It's only the small men who come back," he said, "the men of no courage or the men of no principle. A man who acts on principles will never come back, because that would be giving in. Didn't you know that? Lots of men would far rather go unmarried than marry a girl who keeps them dangling on a string and expects them to come back. They stand by the first answer."

The girl gazed at him steadily. "Do you mean I've lost him?" she said.

Antony leaned forward and took one of her hands in his. "I'm frightfully glad you came today," he said. "I don't think you've lost him at all. But you hurt him frightfully, you know. It was the wrong way to take him altogether. You see, he was giving up everything that he cared for to go to China for you . . , and you told him that you couldn't give up even the little things. Didn't you think it would pay to be honest with him?"

He paused and continued, "Do you remember the morning he left, when he and I got up early to photograph the birds? You remember that etching I made of you? He asked if he might have it once before, and 1 had it all ready for him then, done up in paper. And he wouldn't take it.

"And then of course, I knew that he wasn't coming back. He's not the sort, you know."

He lay back on his pillows. A copy of a gaudy French comic paper slipped from under the bedclothes and fluttered to the floor. Sheila realized that probably it had been secreted on her arrival. Mechanically she picked it up and placed it on the table.

After a time she got up. "Do you know what I'm going to do?" she said. "I'm going to walk up to the Turl and get you a bowl of hyacinths, in peat, you know. It's silly of you not to have any flowers. What colours would you like?"

Antony considered. "White and blue, please, in a blue bowl," he said. "And think it over."

The girl stood looking down on him, chewing her glove.

"You're rather a dear," she said at last. "I think I shall have to write to Peter, shan't I?"

"I should think it's the best thing you can do," said Antony cheerfully. "You ought to have done it weeks ago."

It was a very long letter. Sheila wrote it in her bedroom one evening; it took a long time to write partly on account of its length and partly on account of the view over the woods from her window. It was evening, and whether the sunset influenced her letter or her letter drew her attention to the sunset is a point that probably will never be cleared up. For the rest of her life she remembered every detail of that evening; years afterwards she could sit down in the sunset and recall the phrases that she had written to her lover.

It was a very bulky letter, but she squeezed it into an envelope, walked down to the post, and posted it to Dennison in London.

It is curious how seldom one gets the answer to a letter of importance. One calculates the posts and one determines the hour of the arrival of the reply; it should come by the second post next Wednesday. On Wednesday morning, lying awake in bed, one admits a doubt, born perhaps of previous experience. Perhaps Wednesday was a little too soon to expect an answer. The answer to such a letter would take a little time to prepare; one could not really expect it on Wednesday and, whatever happens, one will not be disappointed if it doesn't come. Wednesday passes, and Thursday.

And perhaps the answer never comes at all.

Sheila was dismayed. She had been prepared for a rebuff, unlikely though she had thought it. But that Dennison should not have answered her letter at all was incomprehensible. It was not his way.

In her letter she had suggested that they should meet in town to discuss their affairs. Now she sent him a postcard, stating very briefly where she would be lunching when she went to town on the following Saturday. To that there was no reply.

She lingered over her lunch till three o'clock, then took a taxi for Chelsea. Already she suspected that he must be away, yet she must put the matter to the test, whatever the cost. She could not return home with nothing accomplished, nothing to bring her peace of mind.

Dennison lived in the middle of a long row of drab grey houses. Sheila paid off her taxi, marched up the steps, and rang the bell.

The maid came to the door. "Can I see Mr. Dennison?"

The maid hesitated. "He's gone away, miss," she said.

So that was it.

"I see," said Sheila. "Do you know when he'll be back?"

"I don't know, miss," said the girl. "He's gone flying—on the sea, you know. With them in the papers." Then, with evident relief. "Mr. Lanard is upstairs it you would like to sec him. He knows all about it."

Sheila produced a card. "Will you ask Mr. Lanard if he can give me Mr. Dennison's address?"

The maid took the card and went upstairs. Presently she returned. "Will you come up?"

Sheila followed her upstairs and into the sitting room. Gazing past the maid and past Lanard she saw her letter and her postcard on the mantelpiece.

Then her attention was directed to Lanard. He stood on the hearthrug with her card in his hand, tall, dark, and very neat. He was not a handsome man at the best of times, and he greeted her with a particularly unpleasant smile. The girl's first impression was that this was the coldest and rudest man that she had ever had to deal with. His smile in itself was an insult, as though he had spat at her.

"Good afternoon. Miss Wallace," said Lanard. He spoke with little cordiality, and he said no more. He knew perfectly well with whom he had to deal. He had read Sheila's postcard to Dennison. Dennison was in New York at the moment; Lanard had determined to wait in that afternoon in case the girl turned up. He had been desperately worried over the flight. His was the temperament that broods and magnifies every danger in theimagination;he had been miserable since his friend had left. He blamed the girl who had started his friend on the run; he blamed himself that he had not gone with Dennison on theheve.There were times when a man needed looking after. That had been one of them.

Well, here was the girl. This was the girl who would be glad enough to marry Dennison if he remained in England, but who could not face the prospect of going out to China with her husband. And yet, one who could not let him go, but must tag on to him as long as he remained in reach to prevent him settling down to forget that he had loved. As she came into the room the fire blazed up in Lanard.

"I'm so sorry to bother you," said Sheila, "—but I wonder if you could give me Mr. Dennison's address? Is he away for long?"

"He's gone to America," said Lanard crisply. "He's in New York."

The girl faltered. "In—in New York?" she said. "Why— when did he go over there? Is he going to be away for long?"

"He'll be back in about a fortnight's time."

The girl was evidently puzzled. "Do you know what he went over there for? I mean, I saw him quite recently and there was no mention of it then."

"I don't suppose so," said Lanard. He paused and eyed her gravely, then continued picking his words with cruel care.

"He has had a good deal of trouble recently. After it was all over he went away for a bit, and got mixed up in this attempt to fly the Atlantic. In an aeroplane. You have heard about it? Dennison is the navigator. I believe the pilot is a friend of yours. Mr. Morris."

The girl gazed at him steadily. "I knew nothing of this," she said.

Lanard smiled again and raised his eyebrows. "No?" he said. "Your brother knows the details. I believe he dined with Morris the other day. Perhaps it would be better if you were to ask him to tell you about it. He can probably tell you more than I."

The girl flushed angrily. "When is the flight to take place?' she demanded.

"On June the second."

"Can you give me Mr. Dennison's address in New York?" She took a paper and pencil from her bag.

Lanard stiffened visibly. "I wonder if I may ask—why?"

"Certainly," answered the girl coldly. "I am sending him a cable of good wishes for the flight."

For a moment there was a battle of glances. "No," said Lanard. "I'm afraid I can't give you the address." "Why not?" demanded the girl.

Lanard did not answer at once, but put his hands into his pockets, crossed to the window, and stood for a moment looking down into the street. When he spoke again it was in a gentler tone.

"Don't you think it would be better to let him alone for thepresent?" he said. "This flight is a serious matter—a dangerous matter. It's very dangerous. People who do that sort of thing have to work very carefully on the preparations, you know. Nothing must be forgotten, nothing must be left to chance. They have to give the very best work there is in them to the preparations. If they don't, they get killed. The flight itself is nothing in importance to the work done beforehand. You see that? If you cable to him now, you'll put him off his stroke and spoil his work entirely. You'll upset him."

He turned suddenly from the window. "And damn it!" he said savagely, "what right have you got to put him off like that? It was you that senthim into this infernal thing. Now the best thing you can do is to keep out of it. Let him alone. What do you want? You'll never get him back. You wouldn't go to China with him—but he'd have gone farther than that with you. He knows you now. He didn't before. You'll never get him back. Can't you make up your mind to let him alone?"

The fit passed, and he stood eyeing her moodily.She did not attempt to speak, but sat down on the edge of a chair and sat leaning forward, her elbows on her knees, playing with her gloves. For a full minute, it seemed to him, they remained like that without a word. Presently she raised her head and smiled at him, a little wistfully.

"We'll discount the heroics," she said. "I had heard nothing at all about all this. Thank you for telling me. I won't cable to him. I'll have back my letter and my postcard, please. Thank you."

She rose, and stood fingering the bulging letter. "As for China," she said. "I see you know all about it. I think you've got hold of the wrong end of the stick. Do you think it would havebeen good for Peter to have gone to China?"

"No," said Lanard slowly, "I don't."

"Nor do I," said the girl. She turned to go. "Think it over, Mr.Lanard." She smiled. "I think we shall be good friends one day," she said. "Good-bye."

Lanard was left alone. Moodily he stood in the window and watched her out of sight down the street, conscious that he had made a most colossal fool of himself. Whether it was the excitement of the interview, or whether unconsciously he had taken a chill, he became aware of the approach of one of his chronic gastric attacks, a very prince of stomach aches. He spent the evening huddled in his dressing gown over a fire that smoked but would not burn, a glass of tepid water at his side, one of the most anxious and most miserable men in London.

Sheila left the house and walked away down the street, dazed and numb. In a sense she was relieved in that she knew everything now. That is, she knew the broad outlines of the matter. The details she must find out. She was hot with anger against her brother. He had known of this all the time, and yet he had not told her.

She turned into the King's Road, bought a budget of newspapers at a tobacconist, and sat down in a teashop to read them. During this interim period the subject had been largely dropped; she found little in the daily papers. One of the weekly journals printed a man of the North Atlantic, showing the approximate point or commencement of the flight. Sheila gazed at it for a while in growing horror; it was right out in the middle, nearly halfway across.

In another paper she found a small paragraph to state that theIberian had arrived in New York. Morris and Dennison were mentioned by name.

So it was true.

It was a painful week-end for Jimmie Wallace. It culminated in a journey, for instead of going up to town on Monday morning, he took the car and drove in a slightly different direction. He did not start till after lunch, so that it was nearly tea-time when he came driving down the lane to the aerodrome.

He passed the entrance to the works, drove on for half a mile, and stopped outside the little new house that stood by itself among the rudiments of a garden.

The maid opened the door. "Can I see Mrs. Morris?" he inquired.

He was shown into the drawing room. Outside in the garden he could see Helen Morris and another girl grubbing about in a border, and Morris's terrier puppy in vain pursuit of a bee. He glanced aimlessly about the room. Morris had never been a man for any display of his work and there was nothing in the house to show his profession, no ostentation of propellers or model aeroplanes. The room was very comfortable, with an open brick hearth surrounded by deep, chintz-covered chairs. ToWallace the whole room spoke of the manthat he hadknown at Oxford. The little things were eloquent; the pipe upon the mantelpiece, the toasting fork in the fender,the long untidy bookcases filled with the russet and black of old calf.

His examination of Morris'sménagewas interrupted by the entrance of his wife.

She came intothe room like a breeze. "Mr. Wallace," she said. "I'm so glad to see you. Can you stay to tea? Stephen's away—but of course youknow that. 1 was forgetting."

"I'd love to have some tea." said Wallace. "Afterwards I must get back—1motored up from Berkshire and I must get back in time for dinner."

Helen Morris wrinkled her brows a little. "That's miles and miles," she said inwonder. "Would you like tea now—or wait till it comes? We can have it now—almost at once."

Wallace smiled. "I'd rather wait till it comes," he said.

He took off his coat and sat down on the arm of a chair. "First of all, I want to get my business off my chest if I may. I'm awfully glad to find you here. IWAS afraid you might have gone away for a change while Stephen is on this Stunt."

"No," said thegirl. "Stephen wanted me to go home, but I wanted to get on with the garden, so I got Eileen Thatcher to come and stay with me. You remember Eileen? She was at Somerville when we were up. And I didn't want to go home."

Wallace nodded. He knew something of the opposition that the girl had had to face at home over her marriage. She had been one of the Rileys of Gloucestershire and of all her relations the only one to take kindly to Morris had been her father, now a great age. She was an only child; one day they would be well off. Wallace, sharing rooms with Morris at Oxford after the war, had watched them from the start.

He perched himself on the arm of his chair and plunged into his subject. "I've come to you because I want you to do something for me." He paused, worried by the difficultyof broaching his subject to the girl. At last he said, "Did you ever nicer this man Dennison?"

The girl shook her head. "No. Stephen wanted him to conic here, but they were so busy before they left and he had too much to do."

She glanced quickly at the perplexed young man. "It's about Sheila, isn't it?" she said.

"That's it," said Wallace with evident relief. "She's been having rather a bad time lately."

Helen Morris nodded. "Stephen told me there was something in the wind between those two," she said. "He never heard any details, because the man wouldn't speak a word about any of you. And Stephen didn't mention it, of course. You told him about it, didn't you?"

Wallace, intent on piecing together his story, disregarded the question. "Well," he said, "it was like this. She first met him about four years ago when he was in hospital, or rather convalescing with an aunt of mine. Then he went away and only turned up again at Easter—this Easter. Mind you, he was quids in all the time I think, only they didn't write or anything."

Some strain of imagination latent in the girl enabled her to piece together this narrative and made the dry bones live. "I see," she said gravely.

"Well, then he got a job in Hong Kong or somewhere that was good enough to marry on—better than most. So back he came at Easter and put it to her as a workable proposition. Well, Sheila got an idea into her head that it wouldn't be a good thing for him to go to China. You see, it was pretty evident that he was only going out there because he wanted to get married. She thought that if they waited a year or two longer and he poked about a bit, he could get a job that they could marry on in England. So she turned him down, nominally because of China. It was taking a pretty big chance, of course. She thought that doing it that way would give him an incentive to find something else that he'd be happier in himself, and that then he'd come back again."

"She didn't tell him?"

"No. She thought it would be better that way. As it turned out, she was a damn sight too clever."

The girl gazed out of the open window into the sunlit garden. "Of course, every man is a perfect infant," she said, "but they aren't such infants as all that. It was brave of her."

"Anyway," said Wallace, "this lad took his pill and I was sorry to see him go. He's a good sort. Then—so far as I can make out—he went off in his yacht for a bit and got run down by your husband and co. That seems to have happened immediately after he left us."

He paused for a moment. "Now Sheila's found out all about it," he said, "and there's a most fearful scene of woe."

Helen nodded comprehendingly.

"It's really rather rotten," said Wallace gravely. "She never thought he'd go off the deep end like this—I don't suppose she thought about it at all. And now she thinks she's sent him off on a thing that's dangerous. She thinks that his taking part in this expedition is all her fault. She thinks he's going to be killed."

The girl did not move.

Wallace rose to his feet and looked her squarely in the face. "I came over to ask if you'd come and see her," he said, "and stay with her a day or two. I know it's a damn funny thing to ask. Perhaps it's a rotten thing to ask you—I don't know about that. But you're the only person who can tell her all about the flight and what the danger really is. That's what she wants to know, though she doesn't say so. She'll believe you. You know, and I know, that there's not much risk about it. They prepare so carefully. I've told her all that, but she doesn't believe me—she thinks I'm just saying it on purpose for her."

"Stephen always says," the girl said absently, "that if anyone was to get hurt it would wreck the scheme at the outset—destroy the confidence of the public. It would ruin it financially. And they can't afford to let that happen."

She turned to Wallace. "Of course I'll come," she said. "I'm frightfully sorry Sheila's taking it so much to heart. I think I can tell her as much as anyone can. I'm awfully glad I can help."

There was a silence. The girl moved slowly to the mantelpiece. "He left his pipe behind," she said in a troubled tone. "Wasn't it silly of him? He'll be miserable without it. I do hope he got one in Southampton."

Wallace could find nothing to say.

The girl left him and walked down the garden to where her friend was still weeding the border, to where the puppy Was still snapping at the bees.

"Eileen!" she said. "Come here. I've got a funny story to tell you. I've got to go away tomorrow." She laughed queerly. "I've got to go and convince a girl that there's really no danger in flying halfway across the Atlantic."

She explained the circumstances.

Her friend plucked a grass and chewed the end of it. "Best thing in the world for you," she said.

So Rawdon's arrangements underwent a modification.

He sat in his shabby little office on the aerodrome, laboriously construing an article in a German technical paper with the aid of a dictionary. It was half an hour after lunch on a hot afternoon. He was unbearably sleepy; he could hardly keep his eyes open; the print grew misty before his eyes. He sat relaxed in his deck chair, his brows knitted in a frown, the paper on his knee. One would have said that here was an amateur golfer reckoning his handicap in the club house of an impecunious golf club, instead of a celebrated engineer at work.

A knock at the door made him raise his head. "Come in," he called, in a voice curiously soft and deep.

His commissionaire opened the door. She was a pretty child about fifteen years of age, with short fair hair, dressed in a blue gym tunic. She gazed kindly at the red-haired man in the chair.

"Please sir," she said, "Mrs. Morris would like to speak to you."

Rawdon laid down his paper. "Tell her to come in," he said. He gazed at her severely. "Then you'd better go and find your hair ribbon."

The child put her hand to her head and smiled shyly, then disappeared. Rawdon heaved his great bulk out of the chair. A moment later Helen Morris entered the room.

Rawdon greeted her and gave her his deck chair. Then he sat himself on his desk and swung his legs like a schoolboy.

"Well," he said, "I've got rooms at both hotels. The arrangements are that we meet at Truro on the evening of the first. Then we get up very early next morning and drive to Poldhu and wait there for the wireless from theIberian. That should come in about eight in the morning—as soon as they get away. Then we drive to Padstow and get there in time for lunch. I've got rooms at the hotel there for us all— for you, Sir David, and myself—and also for Dennison and your husband. They should be arriving about six in the evening, if they get away up to time."

Helen nodded. "I understand," she said. "We meet at Truro then."

"That's it," said Rawdon. "I'm driving down in my car—probably I'll take two days over it. But I'll meet you at Truro. Sir David will be coming down by train. Have you ever met him?"

"No," said Helen. "But what I came to ask you was this. Do you mind if I bring another girl with me?"

Rawdon hesitated. "We don't want to get any more people there than we can possibly help, you know," he said gently.

"I know," said the girl. "This is a friend of mine—and of Dennison. I couldn't leave her behind."

Briefly she explained as much of the circumstances as she thought it necessary for the designer to know.

"Anyway," she said finally, "I can't possibly go traipsing about the country with you and Sir David without a companion."

Rawdon smiled, but still hesitated. From the start he had been opposed to taking Helen Morris to Padstow, though it had been impossible to refuse. He owed that to Morris. But he had never lost a certain feeling of uneasiness. He was a level-headed man and had to look at every aspect of the situation. Suppose the thousandth chance turned up to defeat all their care and labour, and the machine were lost. Padstow would be no place for the wife of the pilot.

And now there would be two of them . . .

He turned to her. "I don't suppose Sir David will mind," he said, "so long as she keeps her mouth shut. You'll impress that on her? It'll be nice for you to have a companion. I'm afraid you'd be very bored otherwise."

He slipped from the table. "So that's all right," he said softly. "We shall like to have her very much. I'll write and get an extra room at the hotel."

Chapter 8

Rawdon cameout of the little wireless house and walked down the path to the car. "Nothing in yet," he said.

They had left Truro early in the morning for Poldhu.

Rawdon drove with Sir David beside him, Helen and Sheila in the rear scat.

It was a delicious morning, calm, sunny, and fresh. Raw-don laughed, settled himself into his seat, and swung the car along the deserted roads at a good pace. As they drove through the lanes. Sir David leaned back chatting cheerfully with Sheila, in contrast to his habitual reserve. It was exhilarating. Upon all of them lay the feeling that that day history would be made; that that day there would be a tiny advance in the utilization of science, in the civilization of the world. And they were the only people in England who knew about it. At that moment in the towns and cities the people were going to work as they had done every morning of their working lives. To them this day would be like any other day. But to the little party motoring through Cornwall, this day would be different, a day to which they would look back with wonder as one upon which they had helped in doing something new.

Sir David got out of the car, fumbled for his watch, and closed it again with a sharp click.

"Twenty minutes to nine," he said briefly. "They're late off the mark, I'm afraid."

They chatted for a little round the car, then turned and fell to pacing up and down the road, Rawdon and Sir David a little way ahead of the others.

"We are fortunate in the weather," said Sir David. "A very high barometer."

Rawdon did not answer. Sir David glanced at him; he was evidently uneasy and paced up and down in silence for a little. At last, "We ought to be hearing something by now," he said. "They must have got away by this time."

Sir David glanced again at his watch. "They may not be in position," he said. "If the vessel were too far out they'd have to wait, of course;—even if it meant finishing the flight in the dark."

Rawdon bit his lip. "I know," he said. "We ought to have given them night-flying equipment. It comes out so frightfully heavy. The dynamo, and the batteries . . . For that we could give them extra fuel for half an hour."

At a quarter past nine Helen Morris came strolling towards them. "No news?" she inquired.

"Not yet," said Rawdon, in his soft, gentle little voice. "It means that theIberian hasn't got within flying distance up to time. We're going to give them an hour more, then we'll try and get a message through to them and find out whatshappening."

He laughed, and stretched his immense frame. "I didn't have half enough breakfast," he said cheerfully.

They turned and walked up and down the road again. Presently Rawdon stopped and glanced towards Helen and Sheila. They were not looking at them.

"Look at that," he said to the baronet.

He pointed to a cottage about a mile away to the north of them. From the one stone chimney a thin wreath of blue smoke rose almost vertically into the air and drifted seawards.

Sir David regarded it for a while in silence. "Coming out easterly—nor'easterly," he said at last. "I was afraid it might with this high glass."

He turned to Rawdon. "Probably entirely local," he said. "It comes round that hill."

The designer did not speak, and they resumed their pacing up and down the road. Presently Sir David stopped.

"How would it be to try and get through to them now?" he said. The wind had risen to a light air, and fanned his cheek as he spoke. "They ought to know about this east in the wind. We didn't count much on that."

"It was a hundred to one against it at this time of year," said Rawdon fretfully.

They turned towards the wireless house. As they approached a man in shirtsleeves appeared at the door and waved a paper at them. Rawdon looked at the baronet for a moment without speaking.

"That's bad luck," he said quietly, and went to fetch the message. It ran:

9.57. Goods safely despatched as arranged Scheme one 963 miles. Willett.

Helen looked over Rawdon's arm at the paper. "What does Scheme one mean?" she asked.

"Scheme-one means coming to Padstow," said Sir David. "Scheme two was for use if it was very bad weather and meant making for Baltimore Harbour—west of Ireland, you know."

"I see," said Helen.

Rawdon turned cheerfully to Sheila. "That's all right," he said. "That's just over nine and a half hours' flight. They'll arrive about half-past seven in the evening, in time for a late dinner." He turned to the car. "Talking of food," he said, "what about another breakfast? We've got all day to get to Padstow." He turned. "Where's Sir David?"

"He went into the wireless hut," said Helen.

Rawdon left the girls to pack themselves into the car and swung jauntily down the path and into the office. He found Sir David at a table, pencilling figures on a scrap of paper.

Rawdon's jaunty bearing dropped from him like a garment. "They're cutting it mighty fine," he said grimly.

Sir David tapped his pencil on the table and gazed at the other for a moment in silence. "Evidently they were late in getting to the spot," he said. "It was to be a maximum of nine hundred and fifty miles."

Rawdon nodded. "Nine hundred and sixty-three miles," he said. "That's just over nine and a half hours' flight, say nine hours and forty minutes—in a calm. And petrol for ten and a quarter hours. They didn't count on having a head wind," he added grimly.

Sir David glanced out of the door at the open moor. "It's probably entirely local," he said again.

They returned to the car and drove back to Truro. At the hotel where they had passed the night they had a second breakfast.

"I say," said Sheila. "Let's get some lunch put up and have it on the way. We shan't want much after a breakfast like this." So they set off for Padstow, driving in the sunshine through the heart of Cornwall.

Sir David sat in the front seat by Rawdon, calm and impassive. They did not speak at all. Behind them Helen and Sheila were cheerful enough; the keen wind and the sunshine had lifted their troubles from them and they were enjoying the drive.

At about half-past one they stopped for lunch on the summit of the moor, not very far from the point where the road branches away downhill to Padstow. On the moor the wind blew strong and free. Rawdon and Sir David left the girls with a perfunctory remark or two, and walked up on to a knoll while they laid out the lunch.

For a long while neither of them spoke.

At last, "Fifteen miles an hour at least," said Rawdon. "Probably nearer twenty."

"Will they know they have a wind against them?"

Rawdon considered. "The smoke of a steamer might tell them," he said. "Nothing else."

There was a pause, and presently Rawdon spoke again. "One couldn't have foreseen a wind like this at this time of year," he said. "The weather report said southwesterly. It's practically dead east."

He turned to the other. "We may as well face the facts. If this wind holds all day, they can't do it. They haven't got the petrol."

Down the road the girls sat on the heather beside the car, the lunch spread on a patch of grass before them. Helen Morris gazed at the two men on the knoll a little anxiously.

"What's the matter with them?" she said to Sheila. "Why don't they come?"

They looked uneasily at the men. Presently they stirred, and rose to their feet. "What are they talking about up there?" said Sheila. "There's something up."

"I know."

The wife of the pilot went to the other side of the road and stood erect upon a little heap of stones looking intently round at the sunlit moor, at the yellow gorse, and at the sea, mistily blue away upon the horizon. Sheila stood watching her, reminded in a queer■way of a child that ventures timidly into a darkened room.

Helen turned slowly towards the knoll; the breeze caught her hair and blew a wisp of it across her face.

"Oh!" she cried. For a moment she stood quite still, then turned and walked across the road to Sheila.

"My dear," she said quietly. "I know what it is. It's the wind. It's blowing against them—and it's very strong."

The afternoon dragged wearily away. They made a hurried lunch and drove down to the little seaport town. At the hotel Rawdon was very good to them, and showed them to their rooms overlooking the estuary. Sir David, on the other hand, had retired absolutely into himself and had become again the man of affairs. He left them and retired to the manager's office and the telephone. Rawdon joined him as soon as he could decently leave the two girls.

Helen and Sheila wandered out into the little town and along the quays, miserably endeavouring to hearten each other. Down the river the wind blew strongly, raising little rollers upon the surface.

At the end of the jetty Sheila turned to Helen.

"I've never been here before," she said, "but Peter knows it well. He's often been in here in his boat." She paused. "I suppose he rows up to these steps in his dinghy,' she said, "and ties her up to that ring. And then he walks up there and does his shopping. Bully beef, and tinned milk and things . . ."

Helen passed a hand through her arm, but could find nothing to say.

The other did not move. "It all seems so unreal," she said. "I've never seen a flying boat close to and I—I don't know what it's like . . ."

Presently they returned to the hotel. At tea Sir David was more communicative. He had managed to get a telephone call through to the Admiralty where he had spoken to a cousin of his. A destroyer would be held ready to proceed to sea at Plymouth. No authority for her to sail could be issued till the machine was two hours overdue. Sir David was to put through another telephone call at ten o'clock, if necessary.

At the end of the day they got into the car again and drove out to the headland at the mouth of the river. Stepper Point. It was half-past seven when they arrived, the time fixed for the arrival of the machine. They left the car in a lane and walked over a field to a stretch of open gorse-covered land where they could see the whole expanse of the western horizon. The wind was dying with the evening.

Sheila and Helen sat down together on a mossy slab of granite overlooking the sea; Rawdon and Sir David stood behind a little way off.

"I'm afraid there's not a chance of it," said Rawdon quietly to the baronet.

"It was better to bring them out," said the other. "And we can do nothing till ten."

Slowly the sun drew nearer the horizon; in the deepening sky appeared the silvery disc of the full moon. The day had been very hot; on the headland the falling breeze grew cool and refreshing. At last Sir David closed his watch with a sharp click. Rawdon raised his eyebrows.

"Twenty past eight," said the baronet. By calculation the petrol would be exhausted by a quarter past.

"It would be possible to run for a little bit longer," said Rawdon. "By cruising at a slower speed they might get as much as half an hour more."

The sun sank lower and lower. The two girls sat together motionless, now and again speaking a word or two in a whisper. At last the lower limb of the sun dipped into the sea. Rawdon looked at his watch; it was nearly nine o'clock.

He glanced towards Helen and Sheila.

"Damn it," he said. "We oughtn't to have brought them."

The baronet shifted a little, and raised the collar of his ulster. He was stiff with standing, and suddenly to Rawdon he seemed to have grown old.

"We must get them back to the hotel," he said. "Will you take Mrs. Morris? You know her better than I."

He moved forward to where the two girls were still watching the afterglow of the sunset. "Come," he said, and there was nothing of the man of business about him now. Only an old man was speaking to the two girls; a man tall, white-haired, and a little old-fashioned in his manner.

"Come," he said. "We must get back to the hotel. They must be down by now. I think by the time we get back to the hotel we shall find a message from them from Ireland."

He turned to Sheila and offered her his arm. "Will you come with me?" he said.

The girl took his arm and they went stumbling over the heather towards the car.

"All evening," she said, "I've been watching the gulls. They do it so easily—so effortlessly. All along the cliff." She turned to the old man. "It's worth it, isn't it?" she said pathetically.

"My dear," said the baronet, "you should ask them."

And that was all that anybody said until they reached the hotel.

Rawdon dropped them at the porch and took the car round to the garage. Sir David ushered Helen and Sheila into the hall. He dropped his hat on to a peg and turned to face them.

"You must go upstairs and go to bed," he said incisively. "I promise you that I will come and tell you the moment we get any news." They stood before him like two children, mesmerized by their own trouble, by his sharply defined features, by the clear enunciation of his words. "You understand?You are to go straight upstairs and get your things off and go properly to bed. And go to sleep. Good night." Without a word they turned and went upstairs.

To everyone in pain there comes a breaking point, the point where fortitude breaks down. As often as not the crisis is precipitated by some discomfort of the most triflingdescription,the last straw in very fact. To Sheila as she lay in bed came the last straw. For three hours she had lain tossing from side to side, feverish and hot. Now as a crown to her misery came an irrational booming in her ears, a droning that she knew she could not stifle from her head.

And then, suddenly, she knew that Dennison was dead. She had reached the breaking point.

For a minute she lay stupefied, then came diversion. Through the thin partition between her room and Helen's, she heard the bed creak suddenly, heard a footstep on the floor, and heard a window flung up. Then there was silence for a little; the girl opened her eyes and lay listening.

Somewhere down the passage another window opened, a door slammed, and then there was Rawdon bellowing in the passage outside her room to Sir David in the manager's office.

"Fisher! I say, Fisher! All right. They're coming in now."

Sheila leaped from her bed and opened the door. "Where are they?" she asked.

Rawdon turned to her with a broad grin. "Listen," he said.

Faintly they heard the booming rising and falling gently on the night air, and a little louder.

"That's them coming in," he said in his soft little voice. "Go and put something on—you'll catch cold." He tapped at Helen's door; they went in and stood together at the window. Helen was leaning on the windowsill.

Outside the moon was bright, the air very still. Beneath their window lay the river, black and mysterious, running out of sight into the darkness. From the night came the roar, louder now, droning and pulsating. Suddenly it ceased.

"Shut off," said Rawdon quietly. "They're putting down into the harbour."

For an interminable time there was no sound. It must have been three minutes or more before there was a sudden sharp burst of engine, clearer now, and much closer. Then, after a long pause, came a gentle rumble rising and falling, now and again shutting off altogether. Rawdon relaxed his attitude and stood erect.

"All over now," he said. "They're onthe water—taxiing into the beach, I should think."

He bent again to listen. Far away down the estuary sounded the rumble, subdued and steady. It broke into a roar, died, and roared again. Then came a curious, slow coughing noise, a choking murmur and then silence, perfect, absolute.

Helen turned to Rawdon. "What did they put the engine on like that for?" she asked.

"Climbing up the beach. Now watch—they'll send up a flare in a minute to show us where they are."

For a quarter of an hour they stood by the window, staring into the darkness, watching for the signal. At last Rawdon stood up and looked at his watch.

"Half-past one," he said. "They must have run out of Very lights." He turned to Helen. "I'm going down to see if I can raise a motorboat," he said. "I don't know that we shall be able to do much before dawn."

Chapter 9

 Dennison satbeside Morris, cold and stiff. He had long ceased trying to peer ahead into the darkness and, but for an occasional glance over the side at the coast they were following, concentrated his attention on holding the electric torch steady on the compass. The torch was the only provision for night flying that they had made; it had been put in as an afterthought. Already the light was very low, but it would last them out.

He leaned over Morris to scrutinize the dim coast. They were flying on a compass course at about three thousand feet, the coast just visible on their beam and below. As Dennison leaned near Morris he could hear him singing something above the roaring of the engine, and smiled a little. Morris had a habit of singing old-fashioned Puritan hymns to pass the time; occasionally he would beat time with the unoccupied hand upon his knee.

He who would valiant be 'Gainst all disaster, Let him in constancy Follow the Master. There's no discouragement Shall make—

Dennison touched him on the arm and pointed seawards to a light. He raised himself in his seat and placed his mouth close to the other's helmet.

 "Lundy," he shouted. "North End. We ought to pick up Hartland in a minute."

Morris nodded without making the effort to reply, stooped, took Dennison's hand and directed the torch to the watch and to the petrol gauge. Then he replaced the hand in its former position with the light on the compass and nodded cheerfully.

In a minute they picked up Hartland Light. Morris stirred in his seat, throttled the engine a little, and put the machine on a slow downward slant. Dennison caught his eye and nodded. This was the last lighthouse on the coast before the entrance to the river; both were afraid of overshooting Pad-stow and flying on in search of it, uncertain of their bearings.

Morris brought her down to a thousand feet and flew close along the coast, scrutinizing every bay. At this height the visibility was better; they could see every beach and headland and even the cottages on the cliffs, bright in the moonlight. After a quarter of an hour Dennison touched the pilot's arm and spoke again.

"This is Pentire Head," he shouted. "It's a mile on the other side of this—one mile."

Morris nodded and held up one finger in comprehension. They passed the head; before them lay a gap in the coast. It was Padstow Harbour.

Morris beat his hand cheerfully upon his thigh.

Dennison raised himself in his seat again, and pointed. "Put down well inside the low point," he said, "because of the bar."

Morris settled himself into his seat, nodded again, and pulled back the throttle. The roar of the engine died from behind them; silence leaped up from the darkness and hit them shrewdly. Dennison put his head over the side and peered downwards. Already they were nearly over the mouth of the harbour; they sank rapidly towards the level, faintly corrugated water.

Lower and lower they sank. Silently they flitted between the points and into the mouth of the river. Morris sat tense and motionless straining his eyes forward in an attempt to read the dim surface of the water. Gently he flattened the glide and settled to the surface. Suddenly, at the last moment, he thrust the throttle hard open. The engine burst into life with a roar; Morris swung the machine through a small angle, shut off the engine, and sank down on to the water.

The machine took the water with a crash and a heavy lurch to starboard. Morris was flung from his seat on to Dennison; a cloud of spray came over them, the water foamed along the gunwale. One wing tip dipped perilously into the water; Morris, half out of his seat, thrust violently upon his controls. The machine steadied on to an even keel and lost way upon the surface.

"Damn it," said Morris. "I must have put her down cross wind after all. Feel if she's making any water."

Dennison stopped and felt beneath his feet, and listened.

"All right," he said.

They looked towards the shore. "There's a beach that we can put her up on over there," said Dennison. "There—just beside that hill. The town's the other side—over there somewhere. We can't get near it. It's all rocky over there."

"Get the wheels down," said Morris. Dennison began to wind the wheels into the landing position; Morris opened up his engine and turned towards the beach.

The machine, running at ten knots, took the beach with a lurch and a jar, rearing her long bow up the sand. Morris gave her a burst of engine; she wallowed forward and crawled out of the water upon her wheels and up the beach. Another burst, and she was ploughing through powdery sand above high water level. The sand, caught up by the propeller, beat stingingly against their faces.

Morris leaned clumsily forward to the instrument board and switched off the engine. The rumble died to an irregular, intermittent coughing; the engine choked and came to rest. From all sides the silence closed in upon them strangely, so that their tiniest movements made a rustlingthat their stunned earswere able to detect and wonder at.

For a long time they sat motionless in the machine. At last Morris put up a hand and tugged feebly at the straps of his helmet. Dennison followed his example, unfastened the chin strap with fumbling hands, and pulled the helmet from his head.

Morris sighed deeply, tried to raise himself from his seat, and sank back with a spasm of cramp. "Poop off a Very light," he said.

Dennison felt for the pistol in the rack beside his seat. Pistol and rack were gone. "I smashed against it when we landed," he said. "I expect it's gone down into the bilge."

With an effort he heaved himself from his seat, drew his legs over the gunwale, and dropped down on to the sand. Morris followed him; they stumbled painfully a little way along the beach, working their cramped muscles. Presently Dennison climbed back into the machine and searched vainly for the pistol; it had slipped somewhere intothe recesses of the hull beyond his reach.

"Leave the bloody thing," said Morris from the beach. "It will be light in a few hours. I'm going to lie down up in those sand hills. Chuck down the seat cushions and my helmet."

Dennison dropped down from the cockpit and they went ploughing through the heavy sand to the dunes at the top of the beach, clumsy in their fleece-lined suits.

They found a hollow and threw themselves down. Morris scraped a hole for his hip, drew up the deep fur collar about his ears, and shifted the leather cushion beneath his head.

"Thank God that bloody job's over," he said sourly, and fell immediately into a heavy, restless sleep.

Slowly the dawn came. The east grew grey, then rose colour as the light spread over the estuary. In the sand hills one or two birds began to stir and twitter in the spearlike grasses; on the edge of the grass land appeared the dim forms ofthe rabbits in little clusters. A shaft of sunlight struck the summit of Stepper Point; the sleepers stirred and blinked uneasily at the light.

Dennison roused, raised himself on one elbow, and watched Morris go stumbling down to the water's edge. As he walked he loosened the heavy collar from his neck and pulled the suit open a little. He reached a little pool of seawater in the sand, knelt down beside it, and began to bathe his face.

Dennison sat up and looked about him, moistening his dry lips. His mouth was dry and gritty with the sand, and his head, enveloped in fur, was hot and stuffy. He pulled the helmet off and threw it on the sand, stooped down, and began to unfasten the flying suit from his ankles and wrists. Presently he wriggled out of it and felt better.

He looked about him. On the beach lay the flying boat lying over on one wing tip with a rakish air of dissipation, one wheel buried in the sand. Behind her, on the far side of the estuary, lay the town, brown and gabled and without a sign of life. A brown-sailed lugger was creeping into the river from the sea, hugging the opposite shore.

Dennison looked for Morris. He was on the machine, standing up on the lower plane, doing something to the engine with a spanner. Dennison watched him curiously. Presently he produced from his pocket the little cup from the top of the empty Thermos flask.

He was drawing a little water from the radiator for a drink.

Dennison, his mouth parched and dry, got to his feet and went down to the machine, drawn as by a magnet. The water from the engine tasted very cool and sweet.

"It's been well boiled, anyway," said Morris.

Dennison went down and completed his toilet in the sea. Returning, he found Morris looking intently over at the town.

"I suppose we stay here till somebody happens to wonder what we are and comes to have a look," said Dennison.

"If they don't come soon," said Morris, "I'm going to totter away inland and look for breakfast. I saw a farm just up there, about half a mile away." He strained his eyes at the town. "As a matter of fact, there's a boat coming out to us now."

On the still morning air they caught the beat of an engine; a small brown motorboat crept out of the harbour and headed straight for them.

There were five people in the boat, one evidently the fisherman owner.

"Rawdon and Sir David," said Morris, "and my wife. I don't know who that is with her. There's a buckshee girl there. Look." He turned to Dennison, and saw that he was looking. He laughed, and turned away. "All right," he said. "You can have that one."

Dennison did not answer. The boat drew nearer; he turned to Morris.

"That's Miss Wallace," he said. "Jimmie Wallace's sister. I suppose your wife brought her for company."

Maybe," said Morris. The boat grounded on the beach a hundred yards away; they walked down to meet it.

The greetings over, Morris turned to the baronet.

"We've made a mess of this, I'm afraid," he said.

Sir David glanced at the machine and back to Morris. "In what way?" he inquired.

"We haven't brought the dummy mail," said Morris. "We had five hundred pounds of firebars nicely done up in sacks and sealed. I got the wind up at the last moment and tipped them out and put in petrol instead—thirty cans. We used that to get here. We haven't brought anything at all—barring empty cans."

There was a deep sigh of comprehension from the party.

"I'm damn sorry about it," said Morris. "It happened like this. We'd arranged to get away about six in the morning, G.M.T. Well, at six we were seventy miles too far out. That puts us in a fix, you see. I didn't dare to push off at that distance; it would have been running it too fine. I decided to wait till ten—and even that gave us more distance than we wanted. I couldn't leave it any later than that because I didn't want to fly at night—no landing lights or anything, you know.

"So I decided to tip out the cargo. It didn't much matter what we brought so long as it weighed five hundred pounds, you see—and I thought it might as well be petrol. I don't mind telling you, I had the wind up—we were running it a bit fine. Anyhow, I loaded her up with thirty cans and we pushed off at about ten. She got off quite well. Much better than when we tried her at full load before. Funny. We had a light breeze from the southwest which must have helped a bit, of course.

"Well, we went trundling on our way. We saw one liner outward bound about half an hour after starting, and after that we never saw a soul. It was damn lonely. I managed topersuadeher up to five thousand feet in an hour or so, and we kept at that, cruising at about ninety-eight. It was a beautiful day—a regular joy ride. I had to undo my Sidcot, I got so hot.

"At noon Dennison got a shot at the sun and worked it. We'd been flying just over two hours, and it showed that we'd made good a hundred and eighty-seven miles. It was a bit on the low side, but I didn't worry much—particularly as Dennison said he couldn't guarantee it to within eight miles."

Rawdon turned to Dennison. "You used an ordinary sextant?"

Dennison nodded. "We had a pretty good horizon most of the day," he said.

"Well," said Morris, "we trundled on a bit and at two o'clock he got another shot. This showed we'd made good a hundred and sixty-two miles in the last two hours—or only three-forty-nine since we started."

He paused a little.

"It made me laugh like hell," he said grimly. "Damn funny and all that. It was pretty obvious we were up against a wind of sorts. Dennison said that if we went down close to the water he'd try and spot what it was. Well, we went down and flew along about twenty feet up. There was a rotten-looking swell running, and with our speed and the swell and the wind across the swell—I was damned if I could tell which way the wind was. Dennison was pretty clear about it, though. He knows more about that sort of thing than I. He said it was southeast and about fifteen miles an hour. I asked him how he knew it, and he said because he saw a puffin."

"Perfectly correct," said Dennison. "There was a little flock of them all steaming head to wind. I didn't know they went so far out."

"Fifteen miles an hour and southeast," said Morris. "That checked fairly well with our progress—it would have been stronger up above, you see. So we went up a bit and thought it over."

He leaned against the wing of the machine. "Well," he said. "It was pretty evident that if we went on we should be down before we got here. It didn't really matter, of course—we'd got the petrol to finish the trip. But that swell had put the wind up me. I thought that if we put down inthat to fill our tanks . . , well, it wasn't good enough, you know. For one thing, I don't think she'd have got off the water again in the swell that was running then. I'm not sure—I don t think so. No, it was pretty evident that we must get into smooth water to refill. And that meant Ireland.

"So at about a quarter to three we set a fresh course and made for Baltimore. The engine ran beautifully all the time—like a sewing machine. Dennison got another shot at the sun to check our position, and we trundled on till we made out Ireland about seven o'clock.

"Well, we didn't go to Baltimore. You see, all we meant to do was to find a patch of smooth water where we could put down, fill our tanks, and get away again. We only meant to stay half an hour, and then get on and finish the flight in daylight. It struck me that if we went near civilization, there d be police and customs and harbourmasters—people in motorboats crashing alongside and sticking boat hooks through the wings—you know. We'd never have got away before next morning. Dennison knew the coast, and he took us to an island, not very far from Baltimore, where there was a little landlocked pool of harbour with a sandy beach. It was an ideal place for the purpose, and nobody about to worry us."

"Sherkin Island," said Dennison. "The harbour was Kinish."

They found smooth water under the lee of Sherkin and put down just outside the entrance to the little landlocked harbour. On the water Morris turned the machine and taxied into the pool through the rocky entrance.

Inside there were firm, sandy beaches running gently down into the water. They got the wheels down and taxied up on to the beach, turned so as to face the water, and taxied down a little way so that the rising tide would lift the machine should she sink too far into the sand. Then they stopped the engine.

With the first move that they made from their seats came the realization of their fatigue. They had been flying for nine hours; every muscle ached and quivered uncontrollably. They were stupid with noise, and shouted at each other in hoarse voices. It was impossible to continue the flight at once.

"It means flying at night if we don't," said Morris huskily. "There'll be a good moon."

They decided to rest for an hour. Wearily they clambered our of the machine and walked a little way up the sand to the top of the beach. There Dennison began to shed his clothes.

"What does A do?" he said, weakly facetious. "Answer adjudged correct; A has a cold bath."

Morris stared at him blankly for a minute, then laughed and followed his example. They wriggled out of their fleecy suits and out of their clothes, and hobbled down the beach to the water. A short bath and they were dressing again, cool and fresh and only very tired.

They took their full hour of rest. Taking the remainder of their food, they climbed up on to a knoll that dominated the harbour and sat down to eat their meal. Nearby they found a spring from which they drank their fill in company with two sheep, the only living creatures that they saw upon the island.

Then for the precious minutes that remained they sat and watched the sun drop down towards the sea.

It was a sunset such as only the west of Ireland can afford. Away to the north lay Mizzen Head, shrouded in a thin, opalescent haze; to the east the bay swept round towards them dotted with promontories and islands, clear in the sunset light. To Morris, stretched comfortably upon the soft turf, life was suddenly very sweet. His eye fell upon the flying boat below them on the sand, and suddenly he wondered why they should go on at all. Here they were in the British Isles, having brought their cargo in up to time. To go on meant that they would expend the petrol that was their cargo. Surely, to have got the cargo so far was as good as to go on to Padstow without it? He thought of his little house in the suburbs, and the unfinished paths in his garden, and his wife, and his puppy.

He had never flown a flying boat at night before, far less landed one in the darkness with no flares. They would touch the water at not less than fifty miles an hour.

Then came to his mind a quaint pride in their achievement. True, they would have expended four-fifths of their cargo. They would still have one-fifth to take to Padstow— the empty petrol cans. If they were to stop now, Sir David would count the flight as a failure; it was little use commercially to land a cargo two hundred miles from the spot intended. To give up now would be—failure.

He glanced at his watch. Their timewas up.

"Let's get down to the machine," he said.

"Well," said Morris. "By the time we'd got the petrol into the tanks it was a quarter to nine. The sun was getting pretty low, but I didn't care much about that—the moon was up already. And then came the real difficulty—starting her up again. I don't know now what it was; it may have been that we got her too rich—1 don't know. We were both pretty tired to begin with, and we took turns at swinging on that bloody crank till we were pretty nearly sick, while the other sat and twiddled the starting mag. And all the time it was getting darker.

"We got her going at last. It was half-past nine by the time she fired, and then we had to get our things on and get settled down. It was practically dark when we taxied out of Kinish and took off."

He paused, weary of his tale. "Well, that's about all there is to it. We put down here about one-fifteen. I didn't risk the crossing direct to Cornwall, though it would have been much shorter, of course. The only light we'd got was that rotten little torch, and if that had packed up when we were halfway across so that we couldn't see the compass ... It wasn't good enough. We came home with one foot on dry land. We went along the south of Ireland and crossed by the Fishguard Route, and then along the south of Wales nearly up to Cardiff, till we could see the other side. We went pretty far up, you see. Then we came down the north coast of Devon. We found this easily enough—it's a good mark on the coast. I put her down rather badly, as a matter of fact—we nearly as possible went over—cross wind, you know. You'd have banked on it blowing up and down the river, wouldn't you? Well, it wasn't. And then when we came to look for it we found we'd lost the perishing Very pistol . . ."

He answered one or two questions, then turned to Sir David with a sudden spasm of nervous energy. "Look here," he said. "It's just damn silly trying to do this flight direct. I didn't see that before, but I do now. Look. Wash out Pad-stow and make the terminus Milford Haven. Then the machine can make for the west of Ireland and come along the south coast, easy as shelling peas. Then you can have an emergency refuelling station at Baltimore, in case you get a head wind. You won't need it one flight in ten—but if it's there you can take more chances."

They broke into a discussion on the commercial aspects of the scheme.

Tiring of the discussion of ways and means, Dennison turned away and began to walk up the beach to the sand hills to collect his kit. He had not spoken to Sheila. Once he had glanced at the girl, but she had avoided his eyes. After that he had concentrated on the story of the flight that Morris told.

At the top of the beach he glanced backwards. She had left the others and was coming up the beach towards him. Blindly he stooped and fumbled with his flying suit upon the sand. Then, as the girl drew near, he turned to face her. "Good morning," he said gently.

The girl faced him steadily, bareheaded against a deep blue sea breaking on the yellow sands. "I oughtn't to have come, of course," she said. "But I got worried, and I wanted to come and say I was sorry. And then Helen said she'd bring me down here, and I came."

"I see," said Dennison. He glanced at her, and laughed suddenly. "Half a minute," he said.

The girl stood gazing at him anxiously. He raised his head. "Before you say any more," he said, "I want you to think of one thing. It's never very wise to make a decision in a hurry, or under exceptional circumstances—if you can put if off. This flight has put us all out of step a bit. Suppose we put off discussing it—till next week?"

The girl smiled. "But I only heard of this flight a week ago. And before then I had written to you to—to say that I'd changed my mind, and ... I'd come to Hong Kong with you, if you'd have me."

And after that there was no more to be said. "As a matter of fact," said Dennison a little later, "the Hong Kong scheme is off."

The girl drew herself up and looked at him in wonder. "But Peter," she said. "Is there anything else? What are we going to do?"

"I couldn't very well go to Hong Kong,", said Dennison. "I've got to sailCbrysanthe, Sir David's new yacht, at Cowes. I shall have to do that every season, I expect, so of course, I couldn't go abroad." He spoke seriously, but there was a gleam of humor in his eyes.

"But Peter, dear," said the girl. "You can't let that decide—everything . . ."

"Sir David quite saw that, of course," said Dennison. "As a matter of fact, the same objection holds for any job. I shall have to have a couple of months off in the yachting season, you see. It meant a special arrangement. I'm being absorbed into the legal department of the Fisher Line. Its rather a good job, I think—I'm to be second-in-command to the old chap who does all their legal business for them now. And it's the work I'm keen on."

Down by the flying boat the discussion drew to a close. Morris stood leaning against the lower wing, one arm round his wife's shoulders, talking earnestly to Rawdon and Sir David Fisher. Behind them the fisherman was swabbing out his motorboat, oblivious of his part in history.

Morris made his last point and stood erect by the machine. "Anyway," he said. "Let's have some breakfast and talk about it afterwards."

His wife caught his eye. "Give them a little longer," she said softly.

All four turned and gazedat the two figures sitting together in the sand hills at the head of the beach.

Rawdon laughed shortly and turned away. "God bless my soul!" he said tersely."They don't want any breakfast."