“We’ll go with you to Folkestone,” said Tom.
“Of course,” said Dorothy.
A few minutes at the Savoy, a brief ride down the lighted Strand in the midst of the noisy crowds, a moment in the rush of the station, and a long ride in the darkness, in a full compartment, brought us back to Folkestone.
All the way down I held Dorothy’s hand in my own. All the way down her warm body was close to mine. Despite all Tom’s precautions, something might go wrong, but, if it ended to-night, we had this, and hope persisted that it would not end to-night, that, on the other hand, this was the beginning of many happy years.
The crew of three was on board the little yacht, which looked no different in the dark from any other boat, though, as we came alongside in the skiff, I could just see a cage of some dark substance above the cockpit. We entered through a latticed door toward the bow, and Tom for half an hour examined every part of the boat with a lantern, the caema screen most vigilantly of all. Dorothy and I sat close together, watching the lights and their reflection in the water. All about the pier was hurry and movement. Three tugs, bearing correspondents, passed us as we lay at anchor, and half a dozen despatch boats and cutters. Tom came up to us at last.
“Jim, if you keep the door of the cage fastened, nothing can happen to you.”
“Don’t be foolhardy, though, for my sake,” said Dorothy.
“Come, Dorothy, we must go. It’s time for Jim to start,” said Tom gently, and I strained Dorothy to my heart and felt her wet cheek against mine.
“I’ll be back safely, dear love,” I whispered, as I helped her into the waiting boat.
Tom wrung my hand as he left. “Jim, I’d go with you, but I think I ought to stay with Dorothy.”