pre's peril, and
Jacques de Wissant hated scenes.

He now asked himself whether there was any real necessity for his
telling his wife before her sister. All he need do was to send Claire a
message by the servant who opened the door to him. He would say that she
was wanted at home; she would think something had happened to one of the
children, and this would be a good thing, for it would prepare her in a
measure for ill tidings.

From what Jacques knew of his wife he believed she would receive the
news quietly, and he, her husband, would show her every consideration;
again he reminded himself that it would be ridiculous to deny the fact
that Claire had made a friend, almost an intimate, of Commander Dupre.
It would be natural, nay "correct," for her to be greatly distressed
when she heard of the accident.

* * * * *

There came a familiar cutting in the road, and again the sea lay spread
out, an opaque, glistening sheet of steel, before him. He gazed across,
with a feeling of melancholy and fearful curiosity, to the swarm of
craft great and small collected round the place where the _Neptune_ lay,
eighteen fathoms deep....

He hoped Claire would not ask to go back into the town with him in order
to hear the latest news. But if she did so ask, then he would raise no
objection. Every Falaise woman, whatever her rank in life, was now full
of suspense and anxiety, and as the mayor's wife Claire had a right to
share that anxious suspense.

The car was now slowing on the sharp decline leading to the shore, and
Jacques de Wissant got up and touched the chauffeur on the shoulder.

"Stop here," he said. "You needn't drive down to the Chalet. I want you
to turn and wait for me at the Pavillon de Wissant. Ask my servants to
give you some luncheon. I may be half an hour or more, but I want to get
back to Falaise as soon as I can."

The Chalet des Dunes had been well named. It stood enclosed in rough
palings in a sandy wilderness. An attempt had been made to turn the
immediate surroundings of the villa into the semblance of a garden;
there were wind-blown flowers set in sandy flower-beds, and coarse,
luxuriant creepers flung their long, green ropes about the wooden
verandah. In front, stretching out into the sea, was a stone pier, built
by Jacques' father many a year ago.

The Chalet looked singularly quiet and deserted, for all the shutters
had been closed in order to shut out the midday heat