Mrs. Wordingham came in with two bottles of that famous strong ale which is kept for twenty years and which is the best antidote against the cold of the marshes known to the wild-fowler—only an amateur takes spirits upon the saltings.
We drank it in silence.
"I don't know what is going to turn up to-night," said Bernard. "I trust to your knowledge of the marshes implicitly. But remember this, old soul, it is not a lark of any sort. We shall be in the gravest danger. I cannot exaggerate the importance of what we are doing. The Admiralty itself is waiting for news. I am not dramatic in any way, Heaven knows! but I'll let myself go for a minute. I believe, John, that it may well be that we two, and the others who are helping us, hold the destinies of England in our hands. God grant that we shall be successful!"
"I think we shall."
"I believe we are on the right track. But there is one thing I want to say. Supposing, just supposing, that one of us does not come back to-night, and assuming it is me"—here Bernard hesitated and looked at me rather ferociously.
"Well?"
"Well, just give this to Miss Marjorie Joyce, will you?" He pulled a signet-ring from his little finger, a ring that had been our governor's.
I told him to keep his hair on and that I would.
At a quarter past ten we slipped out of the big door of the inn, skirted the Sea Wood without entering it, and went down upon the foreshore. It is necessary that I should give you some idea of the famous Morstone marshes, and to the description I will add a rough-drawn map which will help to make things clear.[1]
If you look at the map of England, you will see Wells marked at the top right-hand corner of the Wash. Then comes a long, blank space till you get to Sheringham and finally to Cromer. Blankington-on-Sea was the next town to Wells on the west. Then five miles east of it comes Morstone. So much for our geographical position.