Guy had not trusted to Meriel in vain. When he rose to the surface and shook the water out of his eyes he saw that the yacht was lying-to not half a cable's length away. He had barely time to appreciate the fact when the object he had dived for floated towards him. He caught a glimpse of a despairing face, and the next moment he had grasped Flurscheim by the collar and was striking out strongly in the direction of the dingey, drifting, like themselves, with the tide, only a few yards away. Flurscheim had struggled when Guy had first gripped him, but his struggles had soon ceased. Guy got him to the side of the boat, but could not hoist him aboard. He threw one arm over the stern and hung on, supporting Flurscheim with the other hand. He had not to wait very long. The accident had been observed from the deck of the connoisseur's yacht, and two of her crew, tumbling hastily into their own dingey, came swiftly to the rescue. Flurscheim was hauled aboard; Guy followed, and as he bent over the Jew his eyes opened, and a glance of recognition came into them.
"Not much the worse for your ducking, eh, Mr. Flurscheim?" asked Guy.
The connoisseur struggled into a sitting position. He held out his hand mutely. Guy took it for a moment in his, then turned to the men who had come to their assistance.
He pointed to the drifting dingey. "If you'll get hold of that, I'll pull myself aboard," he said quietly. "Mr. Flurscheim will be all right." He was obeyed, and a minute later he stepped aboard the Witch, and, once more taking the tiller, brought her up to the wind and steered for home.
Meriel said nothing—what could she say? To her Guy's action was heroic. His coolness, the absolute confidence with which he had set about the work of rescue, the ease with which he had performed the task he had set himself, revealed qualities which filled her with admiration. Yet the man who possessed these qualities was a thief. No, there was nothing she could say.
The Witch flew homewards, and the Hall came into view.
"Will you take the tiller again, Miss Challys?" he asked, as the boat neared the buoy.
She took it from him mechanically. He went forward, hauled in the foresail, and, as the boat came about, dropped the peak. The Witch drove leisurely on to her moorings, and in a couple of minutes she was fast. There was no time to waste. Meriel hastened to his assistance. She worked side by side in stowing away the canvas. The storm held off, though the clouds had nearly covered the sky by the time everything had been made snug aboard.
"Come," said Guy, as he drew the dingey alongside. Meriel stepped into the boat, and a dozen strokes took them to the bank.
"We shall just manage to get home before the storm breaks," he continued, as he handed her ashore, and, following, made the painter fast to the guide rope.