CHAPTER XXII
From that time onward, notwithstanding Jacob’s unbroken composure, time began to hang heavily. Towards evening, he pulled up one of his strings and found sandwiches and whisky enough to keep him going. He received no more visitors, friendly or otherwise, and he listened in vain until nightfall for the sound of Lady Mary’s boat. In the morning, however, he was awakened early by the sound of her whistle below. The room was half full of grey mist. Leaning out of the aperture, he could scarcely distinguish her form as she stood up in the boat, and in the distance he could hear foghorns from passing steamers blowing.
“How are you?” she asked anxiously.
“Right as a trivet,” he assured her. “Wish I had a mirror, though, to see how I look in a beard.”
She scrutinised his appearance and laughed softly, balancing herself easily against the oar which she had stretched out to the side of the tower. The moisture of the sea was upon her face and hair. A very becoming peignoir imperfectly concealed her bathing dress.
“I never realised before what a spick-and-span person you were,” she observed. “You are beginning to look a little dishevelled, aren’t you? Would you really like me to bring you a mirror and some shaving things?”
“Are you beginning to make fun of me?” he asked, leaning a little farther out.
She shook her head, and he realised suddenly that there was a note of tragedy underneath her assumed cheerfulness. He went on talking desperately, trying not to notice the quiver of her lips.
“Because if you are I shall slip down and do my famous dive act. I don’t believe in your sunken rocks.”
“I forbid you to try,” she said firmly.