“I agree with you,” Mr. Sabin said quietly.
The boat was now within hailing distance. Mr. Sabin leaned down over the side and scanned its occupants closely. There was nothing in the least suspicious about them. The man who sat in the stern steering was a typical American, with thin sallow face and bright eyes. The woman wore a thick veil, but she was evidently young, and when she stood up displayed a figure and clothes distinctly Parisian. The two came up the ladder as though perfectly used to boarding a vessel in mid ocean, and the lady’s nervousness was at least not apparent. The captain advanced to meet them, and gallantly assisted the lady on to the deck.
“This is Captain Ackinson, I presume,” the man remarked with extended hand. “We are exceedingly obliged to you, sir, for taking us off. This is my wife, Mrs. James B. Watson.”
Mrs. Watson raised her veil, and disclosed a dark, piquant face with wonderfully bright eyes.
“It’s real nice of you, Captain,” she said frankly. “You don’t know how good it is to feel the deck of a real ocean-going steamer beneath your feet after that little sailing boat of my husband’s. This is the very last time I attempt to cross the Atlantic except on one of your steamers.”
“We are very glad to be of any assistance,” the captain answered, more heartily than a few minutes before he would have believed possible. “Full speed ahead, John!”
There was a churning of water and dull throb of machinery restarting. The little rowing boat, already well away on its return journey, rocked on the long waves. Mr. Watson turned to shout some final instructions. Then the captain beckoned to the purser.
“Mr. Wilson will show you your state rooms,” he remarked. “Fortunately we have plenty of room. Steward, take the baggage down.”
The lady went below, but Mr. Watson remained on deck talking to the captain. Mr. Sabin strolled up to them.