“Very well. But remember, you promise to tell me when the time comes.”
“That and other surprising things.”
“I’ll be going.”
“Come up as often as you like.”
Cunningham accompanied her to the bridge ladder and remained until she was speeding along the deck; then he returned to his chart. But the chart was no longer able to hold his attention. So he levelled his gaze upon the swinging horizon and kept it there for a time. Odd fancy, picturing the girl on the bridge in a hurricane, her hair streaming out behind her, her fine body leaning on the wind. A shadow in the doorway broke in upon this musing. Cleigh.
“Come in and sit down,” invited Cunningham.
But Cleigh ignored the invitation and stepped over to the steersman.
“Has Miss Norman been in here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How long was she here?”