“Follow me,” he said, taking a delight in being as curt as Mademoiselle Brun herself, and in denying them the explanations they were too proud to demand.
They walked abreast through the narrow street dimly lighted by a single lamp swinging on a gibbet at the corner, turned sharp to the left, and found themselves suddenly at the water's edge. A few boats bumped lazily at some steps where the water lapped. It was blowing hard out in the bay, but this corner was protected by a half-ruined house built on a projecting rock.
The priest looked round.
“Hé! là-bas!” he called out, in a guarded voice. But he received no answer.
“Wait here,” he said to the two women. “I will fetch him from the café.” And he disappeared.
Denise and mademoiselle stood in silence listening to the lapping of the water and the slow, muffled bumping of the boats until the abbé returned, followed by a man who slouched along on bare feet.
“Yes,” he was saying, “the yacht was there at sunset. I saw her myself lying just outside the point. But it is folly to try and reach her to-night; wait till the morning, Monsieur l'Abbé.”
“And find her gone,” answered the priest. “No, no; we embark to-night, my friend. If these ladies are willing, surely a St. Florent man will not hold back?”
“But you have not told these ladies of the danger. The wind is blowing right into the bay; we cannot tack out against it. It will take me two hours to row out single-handed with some one baling out the whole time.”
“But I will pull an oar with you,” answered Susini. “Come, show us which is your boat. Mademoiselle Brun will bale out, and the young lady will steer. We shall be quite a family party.”