“No, it’s hers—the one she always sails. She’s come to meet m—, us.”
Through the glasses the white scrap became a graceful little sail, squared away for the light following breeze. An angle of the creek hid the hull, then it glided into view. Someone was sitting aft steering, man or woman I could not say, for the sail hid most of the figure. For full two minutes—two long, pregnant minutes—we watched it in silence. The damp air was fogging the lenses, but I kept them to my eyes; for I did not want to look at Davies. At last I heard him draw a deep breath, straighten himself up, and give one of his characteristic “h’ms”. Then he turned briskly aft, cast off the dinghy’s painter, and pulled her up alongside.
“You come too,” he said, jumping in, and fixing the rowlocks. (His hands were steady again.) I laughed, and shoved the dinghy off.
“I’d rather you did,” he said, defiantly.
“I’d rather stay. I’ll tidy up, and put the kettle on.” Davies had taken a half stroke, but paused.
“She oughtn’t to come aboard.” he said.
“She might like to,” I suggested. “Chilly day, long way from home, common courtesy——”
“Carruthers,” said Davies, “if she comes aboard, please remember that she’s outside this business. There are no clues to be got from her.”
A little lecture which would have nettled me more if I had not been exultantly telling myself that, once and for all, for good or ill, the Rubicon was passed.
“It’s your affair this time,” I said; “run it as you please.”