The old fire flamed her eyes. She backed away and motioned for him to go. Her hand dropped to her side. She waited.
“Good-by!â€� he said, turning. “Tell your friends of the Yard it’s no use looking for me. I’ll be in—â€�
“Dartmoor in three days!� she exclaimed, walking toward the decrepit motor car without glancing back.
Fay hesitated the fractional part of a second. He was of two minds. Saidee had hurt him with her last thrust. It was like her to say that. It was also a dare. He took it by swinging, striding for the
gangplank and dashing up its slope as two deck hands seized the handles to draw it aboard.
The propeller throbbed. A hoarse blare awoke the birds on the bank of the quay. A small group gathered and watched the ship ware out and take the channel toward the sea. It clamped down the dark waters and rounded a point upon which was a blue light.
Fay climbed up the forbidden ladder leading to the pilot-house. He strained his eyes. The motor car with its twin cones of white fire was still on the quay. In the tonneau of this he saw Saidee Isaacs standing. Her hands were at her sides. Her veil was lifted up and over the brim of her hat.
Suddenly, with a quick gesture, she drew down the veil. The car turned clumsily and made for the dark aisles of the town.
Rolling mist blotted out both shores of the channel. The ship passed painted buoys from which she sheered like a frightened sow in a pen. The way ahead was found by reversing and keeping bare steerage-way. A projector of yellowish light stabbed from the pilot-house. This was turned on and off as each buoy was raised.
Windmills loomed above the low lines of the dykes. Fishing boats with furled sails and quaint deck-houses astern swung at anchor. Once the fog lifted sufficiently to reveal a long road running over a causeway which stabbed like a white dagger through the night.