"Oh, yes," she said, breaking into a gallop. "Too bad to have to go, isn't it?"
"Go? Go where?" asked Malcolm, staring at Franklin.
"Ashore, old man. Beatrix is sick of the Galatea and is taking her party off the yacht this afternoon."
"Her party?" The words came sharply from Mrs. Larpent.
"Her party,—yes," said Franklin, "so sorry," and he gave her a little bow which permitted of no argument.
Malcolm was staggered. "Meaning me,—too?"
"Naturally, my dear fellow," said Franklin. "The ladies must have a man to look after them. Don't forget, three-thirty."
The first officer was on the bridge. Franklin made for the Captain's state-room. McLeod, in his shirt sleeves, with a pipe between his teeth, was reading a magazine.
"Don't move," said Franklin. "Just listen. Make a beeline at once for the nearest place where my wife and her friends can be put ashore. Then have the big launch ready. Load it with all the luggage except my wife's. Have hers ready to dump into the other launch, but don't lower it. Put Jones in charge and get Mrs. Larpent, Mrs. Keene, Mr. Fraser and the French maid into the launch. As soon as she's well away, the first officer will take a signal from me to pass on to you on the bridge. I'll raise my right hand above my head. He will do the same. That will mean full steam ahead and out to sea. Jones will land his party and come after us. Is all that clear?"
"Quite clear, sir, thank you!" said the Captain.