A man's deep tones broke out above. "This way. Mind the steps; they're a bit slippery, Miss Dorothy."
"But my father—?" came the girl's voice, attuned to doubt.
"Oh, he'll be along—if he isn't waiting now, in the boat."
They descended, the man leading. At the foot, without a glance to right or left, he advanced to the edge of the stage, leaning out over the rail as if endeavoring to locate the rowboat. At once the girl appeared, moving to his side.
"But, Mr. Mulready—"
The girl's words were drowned by a prolonged blast on the boatswain's whistle at her companion's lips; the shorter one followed in due course. Calendar edged forward from Kirkwood's side.
"But what shall we do if my father isn't here? Wait?"
"No; best not to; best to get on the Alethea as soon as possible, Miss Calendar. We can send the boat back."
"'Once aboard the lugger the girl is mine'—eh, Mulready?—to say nothing of the loot!"
If Calendar's words were jocular, his tone conveyed a different impression entirely. Both man and girl wheeled right about to face him, the one with a strangled oath, the other with a low cry.