ooked at Clubbe, and at no one else, as if the Captain and
he were alone in the cabin where they had passed so many years together
in fair weather, to bring out that which is evil in a man, and foul, to
evolve the good.

"What do YOU say?" he asked, in English, and he must have known that
Captain Clubbe understood French better than he was ready to admit.

Clubbe passed his hand slowly across his cheek and chin, not in order to
gain time, or because he had not an answer ready, but because he came of
a slow-speaking race. His answer had been made ready weeks before while
he sat on the weather-beaten seat set against the wall of "The Black
Sailor" at Farlingford.

"Tide's turned," he answered, simply. "You'd better get your oilskins on
again and go."

"Yes," said Loo, with a queer laugh. "I fancy I shall want my oilskins."

The boat which had been sent from Royan, at the order of the pilot, who
went ashore there, had followed "The Last Hope" up the river, and was
now lying under the English ship's stern awaiting her two passengers and
the turn of the tide.

Dormer Colville glanced at the cabin clock.

"Then," he said, briskly, "let us be going. It will be late enough as it
is before we reach my cousin's house."

He turned and translated his remark for the benefit of the Marquis and
Juliette, remembering that they must needs fail to understand a colloquy
in the muttered and clipped English of the east coast. He was nervously
anxious, it would appear, to tide over a difficult moment; to give Loo
Barebone breathing space, and yet to avoid unnecessary question and
answer. He had not lived forty adventurous years in the world without
learning that it is the word too much which wrecks the majority of human
schemes.

Their preparations had been made beforehand in readiness for the return
of the tide, without the help of which the voyage back to Royan against
a contrary wind must necessarily be long and wearisome.

There was nothing to wait for. Captain Clubbe was not the man to prolong
a farewell or waste his words in wishes for the future, knowing how vain
such must always be. Loo was dazed still by the crash of the storm and
the tension of the effort to bring his boat safely through it.

The rest had not fully penetrated to his inmost mind yet. There had been
only time to act, and none to think, and when the necessity to act was
past, when he found himself crouching down under the weather gunwale
of the French fis