"There's no hurry."
"But she'll do nine knots in this breeze." Strange watched her with the eye of knowledge as she leaned over ever so slightly from the wind. "She might give us the slip."
Slingsby went on eating unconcernedly.
"She will," he answered. "We are not after her, my friend. Got your chart?"
Strange fetched it from the locker and spread it out on the table.
"Do you see a small island with a lighthouse?"
"Yes."
"Four miles west-south-west of the lighthouse. Got it?"
"Yes."
"How long will it take you to get to that point?"