Lunch being planned for rather an early hour, the two girls went down to get things in order about twelve o'clock. Adrian took the tiller, and, steering with his eyes half shut, whistled softly to himself. Christobel began setting the swing table in the saloon--the plan was to lay-to upon the wind and have a proper lunch, as there was time; Peterock cliffs were already in sight, and they would be moving towards their destination all the while on the drift of the tide.
Pamela went through to light the stove--hot water would be wanted for washing up, which was never left indefinitely. She had just put the kettle on when she heard Christobel say something, and called out.
"What's that, Crow?"
"How funny!"
"What's funny?" Pamela set a saucepan close to the kettle--with a view to egg-boiling--and then swooped through the low door full of curiosity. "What's funny?" she asked again.
Crow was sitting on the bunk seat which was generally called hers, holding something in her hand--a handkerchief. Not one of Adrian's "tablecloths", nor one of the girls' strong linen hem-stitched articles with the name letter in the corner. It was small and fine and lace-edged. Crow began turning it round slowly through her fingers, looking for some mark.
A spasm passed through Pam's mind. She was beginning to be accustomed to that sudden sick shock, that meant "danger ahead", but it was none the less unpleasant.
Christobel came to a corner, and stayed.
"Goodness!" she murmured. "I say, Pam, look here!"
Pamela had no need to "look here", she guessed.