“Good-day, sir. You will just have time to get into your boat and get ashore while we are in smooth water, and before we start the engines.”
The Admiral did not seem to notice the little fat man's outstretched hand. The secretary bowed him out of the cabin, holding the photograph in one hand and his notebook in the other. Neither of them liked his look well enough to shake hands with him.
The Admiral, however, did not give the order to start the engines immediately, for the sentry, in accordance with orders received from the secretary, waited till Mr. Obadiah Howlman was at the foot of the accommodation-ladder, and then called out, “Hold on that boat a minute or two; the Admiral wants to send a letter ashore.”
For twenty minutes Mr. Howlman waited impatiently in the boat, and then a big, official-looking letter was handed down the ladder to the boatman, addressed: “O.H.M.S.—Commander Arness, H.M.S. Spitfire care of H.B.M. Consul, Levuka, Fiji.”
Mr. Howlman smiled to himself with the satisfied air of a man who has done his duty. He knew the contents of the letter, and recognised through its envelope the hard cardboard of the photograph of George Barcom enclosed therein. There was also a smaller note, addressed to Commander Arness by name, and marked, “Private letter.”
Five minutes later the Hannibal steamed through the passage, and shaped a course for Sydney.
The Spitfire was steaming full speed E.S.E. from Levuka. On the bridge was Commander Arness talking to the navigating lieutenant, a young and almost effeminate-looking officer.
The land had just been sighted, and lay right ahead.
“Will there be daylight enough left for us to get there and have this wretched thing over, Carteret?” asked Commander Arness.
“Plenty, sir, if this weather keeps up and you don't want to stay there more than a couple of hours.”