ouldn't have done it for us. She won't go to windward.
But the _Tortoise_ is a racing boat. Father bought her cheap at
Kingstown because she never won any races, which is the reason why he
called her the _Tortoise_. But she can sail faster than Flanagan's old
boat, anyhow. And that's the one which the spy has got."

Frank was not inclined to discuss the appropriateness of the
_Tortoise's_ new name. He was just beginning to recover from the
feeling of bewildered annoyance induced by the sudden introduction of
Wordsworth's poem into the conversation.

"But what makes you say he's a spy?" he said. "I know there are spies,
and I saw about the capture of that one in Lough Swilly. But why should
this man be one?"

"I don't say he is," said Priscilla. "All I say is that until we've
hunted him down we can't possibly be sure that he isn't. You never can
be sure about anything until you've actually tried it. And, anyway,
what else can he be? You can't deny that there's some mystery about him.
Remember what Peter Walsh said about his looking as innocent as a child.
That's the way spies always look. Besides, I don't think his clothes
really belonged to him. I could see that at a glance. He had a pair of
white flannel trousers with creases down the fronts of the legs, quite
as swagger as yours, if not swaggerer, and a white sweater. He didn't
look a bit comfortable in them, not as if they were the kind of clothes
he was accustomed to wear. That's Rossmore head on the left there,
Cousin Frank. He's not there. I didn't expect he would be, and he isn't.
I don't expect he's in that bay to the southwest of it either. But we'll
just run in a bit and make sure."

The breeze had freshened a little, and the _Tortoise_ made good way
through the calm water. Frank began to feel some little trust in
Priscilla. She handled the boat with an air of confidence which was
reassuring. His conscience was troubling him less than it did. There
is nothing in the world equal to sailing as a means of quieting anxious
consciences. A man may be suffering mental agonies from the recollection
of some cruel and cold-blooded murder which he happens to have
committed. On land his life would be a burden to him. But let him go
down to the sea in a small white sailed ship, and in forty-eight hours
or less, he will have ceased to feel any remorse for his victim. This
may be the reason why all Protestant nations are maritime powers. Having
denied themselves the orth