ne" answered to it at once, and the waves gurgled and
laughed beneath her counter as she moved through the water. She could
sail quicker than her dinghy: Barebone knew that. But he also knew that
he could handle an open boat as few even on the Cotes-du-Nord knew how.

If the breeze came strong, it would blow the fog-bank away, and Barebone
had need of its covert. Though there must be many English boats within
sight should the fog lift--indeed, the guardship in Harwich harbour
would be almost visible across the spit of land where Landguard Fort
lies hidden--Barebone had no intention of asking help so compromising.
He had but a queer story to tell to any in authority, and on the face
of it he must perforce appear to have run away with the dinghy of the
"Petite Jeanne."

He desired to get ashore as unobtrusively as possible. For he was not
going to stay in England. The die was cast now. Where Dormer Colville's
persuasions had failed, where the memory of that journey through
Royalist France had yet left him doubting, the incidents of the last few
days had clinched the matter once for all. Barebone was going back to
France.

He moved as if to stretch his limbs and lay down once more, with his
shoulders against the rail and his elbow covering the stanchion round
which the dinghy's painter was made fast.

The proper place for the dinghy was on deck should the breeze freshen.
Barebone knew that as well as the French Captain of the "Petite Jeanne."
For seamanship is like music--it is independent of language or race.
There is only one right way and one wrong way at sea, all the world
over. The dinghy was only towing behind while the fog continued to be
impenetrable. At any moment the Captain might give the order to bring it
inboard.

At any moment Barebone might have to make a dash for the boat.

He watched the Captain, who continued to steer in silence. To drift on
the tide in a fog is a very different thing to sailing through it at ten
miles an hour on a strong breeze, and the steersman had no thought to
spare for anything but his sails. Two men were keeping the look-out in
the bows. Another--the leadsman--was standing amidships peering over the
side into the mist.

Still Barebone waited. Captain Clubbe had taught him that most difficult
art--to select with patience and a perfect judgment the right moment.
The "Petite Jeanne" was rustling through the glassy water northward
toward Farlingford.

At a word from the Capta