“Well, ask him. You and I will go ashore, and Tom can put out with the yacht. Then there will be no chance of the sailors’ telling anything.”
“All right,” I answered. “I don’t seem to care what happens.”
Folkestone Pier was a black mass of people looking out to sea as we came in, and a surging crowd came towards us, as Dorothy and I landed, while our boat, with Tom in the stern, shot back towards the yacht. Had it not been for three or four policemen, we could not have forced our way through the jam, but by their aid we managed to struggle through, shaking our heads in response to the thousand questions. As the human tide ebbed back towards the end of the pier, I heard my name and turned. It was Maxwell, our London correspondent.
“What news?” he asked eagerly, when he reached me.
“I’ll tell you, if you’ll get us out of this crowd,” I answered.
“I’ve got a motor here. Come on,” he said, and we made our way out, boarded the motor and started slowly off. I looked at the chauffeur.
“Run out to a quiet place where we can be alone, will you?” I said to Maxwell.
In a few moments we had cleared the town, and were on the bluff above the sea. There was no one around. “This will do,” I said.
As we descended, Maxwell looked questioningly at Dorothy.