‘Demetri had some good in him, after all,’ I thought, as I sat down by the captain, and told him that we should be on our way in five minutes. He exhibited much satisfaction at the prospect.
The five minutes passed. Hogvardt, who acted as our skipper, gave his orders to our new and smiling crew of islanders. We began to move. The captain and I came up from below and stood on deck. He looked seaward, anticipating his excursion, I landward, reviewing mine. A few boys waved their hands, a woman or two her handkerchief. The little harbour began to recede; the old grey house on the hill faced me in its renewed tranquility.
‘Well, good-bye to Neopalia!’ I had said, with a sigh, before I knew it.
‘I beg your pardon, Lord Wheatley?’ said the captain, wheeling round.
‘For a few hours,’ I added, and I went forward and began to talk with Hogvardt. I had some things to arrange with him. Presently Watkins appeared, announcing luncheon. I rejoined the captain.
‘I thought,’ said I, ‘that we’d have a run straight out first and look at Mouraki’s death-place on our way home.’
‘I’m entirely in your hands,’ said he most courteously, and with more truth than he was aware of.
Denny, he and I went down to our meal. I plied the captain with the best of our cheer. In the safe seclusion of the yacht, the champagne-cup, mixed as Watkins alone could mix it, overcame his religious scruples; the breach, once made, grew wider, and the captain became merry. With his coffee came placidity, and on placidity followed torpor. Meanwhile the yacht bowled merrily along.
‘It’s nearly two o’clock,’ said I. ‘We ought to be turning. I say, captain, wouldn’t you like a nap? I’ll wake you long before we get to Neopalia.’
Denny smiled indiscreetly at this form of promise, and I covertly nudged him into gravity.