"Nothing of that was done by you in your right mind, Michael."
"Pardon: but it seems a nice question, which mind of mine, today's or yesterday's, is 'right'. Neither do I think Society will be disposed to split hairs concerning my liability for acts committed whilst my intelligence was—constructively, at least—under a cloud. Nor, for that matter, am I: if I may not clear the name of Michael Lanyard or wipe out the score against him, I have little use—no, none—for the liberty of André Duchemin."
In uncontrollable disquietude, the woman rose. "What do you propose, then?"
"I have made no plan."
"If you won't have Morphew's help—"
"My dear Liane: that 'if' of yours is downright, voluptuous redundancy."
"But we are due at Nassau at dawn, the police will board us with the pilot boat—!"
"Eight bells just sounded; it should be daybreak by four o'clock, at this season. In other words, I command eight hours of darkness. And the Lone Wolf that lives on in Michael Lanyard, let me tell you, is hardly the half-witted cur you have sketched for me, who cowered behind a woman's skirts in terror of American police."
Discovering Liane's arms about him, her face strained up to him, Lanyard caught himself up sharply, shrugged, and wagged a long-suffering head: "My dear Liane!"
She said in a sob: "You do not mean it—"