Wrayford held her to him reassuringly. “But the boatman sleeps down at the village; and who else should come here at this hour?”
“Cobham might. He thinks of nothing but the launch.’”
“He won’t to-night. I told him I’d seen the skipper put her shipshape, and that satisfied him.”
“Ah—he did think of coming, then?”
“Only for a minute, when the sky looked so black half an hour ago, and he was afraid of a squall. It’s clearing now, and there’s no danger.”
He drew her down on the bench, and they sat a moment or two in silence, her hands in his. Then she said: “You’d better tell me.”
Wrayford gave a faint laugh. “Yes, I suppose I had. In fact, he asked me to.”
“He asked you to?”
“Yes.”
She uttered an exclamation of contempt. “He’s afraid!”