The water was cold, shockingly cold. He struck out swiftly for the yacht. Fortunately the accommodation ladder had not yet been taken up; in another moment he was clinging, a limp and dripping spectacle, to the rail of the Lileth.
Happily that side of the deck was just then deserted. A row of outside cabin doors in the bow met Minot's eye. Stealthily he swished toward them.
And, in the last analysis, the only thing between him and them proved to be a large commanding gentleman, whose silhouette was particularly militant and whose whole bearing was unfavorable.
"Mr. Wall, I presume," said Minot through noisy teeth.
"Correct," said the gentleman. His voice was sharp, unfriendly. But the moonlight, falling on his face, revealed it as soft, genial, pudgy—the inviting sort of countenance to which, under the melting influence of Scotch and soda, one feels like relating the sad story of one's wasted life.
Though soaked and quaking, Mr. Minot aimed at nonchalance.
"Well," he said, "you might be good enough to tell Lord Harrowby that I've arrived."
"Who are you? What do you want?"
"I'm a friend of his lordship. He'll be delighted, I'm sure. Just tell him, if you'll be so kind."
"Did he invite you aboard?"