“I don't see why you should not,” was the reply. “Everybody goes ashore there except about half a dozen men, who certainly will not want your services.”
“I should rather like to do it. We come from the same part of the country, and Agar seems anxious to have me. He is not a chap to say much, but I imagine there will be some sort of a denouement.”
The Captain was looking through a pair of glasses ahead, towards the anchorage.
“All right,” he said. “Go.”
And he continued to attend to his business with that watchful care which made the Mahanaddy one of the safest boats afloat.
Presently Mark Ruthine left the bridge and went to his cabin to pack. As he descended he paused, and retracing his steps forward he went and touched Jem Agar on the arm.
“It's all right,” he said. “I'll go with you.”
Agar nodded. He was gazing at the green English hills and far faint valley of the Tamar with a curious gleam of excitement in his eyes.
Half an hour later they landed.
“You stick by me,” said Jem Agar, when they discerned the small wiry form of Seymour Michael awaiting them on the quay. “I want you to hear everything.”