“Dig out after the Cyrilla. You know her, don’t you?”
“I do so. But I reckon she ain’t in sight. What’s the course?”
“Down stream. She’ll be making for the Dutch coast. Are you good for a long run?”
“Surely. And I reckon it will be a long run. She’s fast, is Cyrilla. Wind her up, Jim,” and the launch began to throb through the water.
Mr. Fortune retired under the hood and lit his pipe, and Bell followed him. “He’s smart, isn’t he, sir, our Mr. Kuyper? His yacht at Gravesend and he comes down by Tilbury. That’s neat work.”
“Don’t rub it in, Bell. I know I ought to have thought of Tilbury.”
Bell stared at him. “Good Lord, Mr. Fortune, I’m not blaming you, sir.”
“I am,” said Reggie. “It’s an untidy case, Bell. Well, well. I wonder if I’ve missed anything more?”
“I don’t know what you’ve missed, sir. I know I wouldn’t like to be on the run if you were after me.”
Reggie looked at the large, man with a gleam of amusement. “It would be rather joyful, Bell,” he chuckled, and was solemn again. “No. I am not happy. Je n’ai pas de courage. I want Mr. Kuyper.”