"I think the Aphrodite might have fired cannons last night without disturbing me," she declared lightly. "What time is it?"
"Nearly nine o'clock, miss. No one seemed to be stirring, so Mr. Gibson put off breakfast for half an hour. He said that everybody must be worn out after yesterday's worries."
Irene laughed. Gibson, the head steward, a fatherly sort of man, was a martinet in the matter of punctuality at meals. This adjourning of the breakfast hour was a great concession on his part. It showed how strenuous life had been at Massowah.
Despite her aches and pains, she dressed rapidly. She was all agog to learn how von Kerber had regained his liberty, and what new development was marked by the yacht's unexpected sailing. When she hurried to the bridge for news, the first person she met was Royson, and perhaps one of those old deities of Memphis would have smiled darkly were he privileged to see the tell-tale color that leaped to both faces.
Naturally, the girl was the speedier to find her tongue.
"Good gracious, Mr. Royson," she said, "what is the meaning of this?" and a generous hand-sweep included sea and sky and distant coastline in the eager question.
"I don't know," he said. "Captain Stump and Mr. Tagg entered into a conspiracy to keep me in bed. I have not been on deck five minutes."
"But didn't you ask? Aren't you consumed with curiosity? Who is in charge of the bridge?"
"Mr. Tagg. His stock of information is limited. 'Cleared the islands at four bells; course South-40-East' is practically all he has to say."
"It may be, then, that you are good at guessing? Have you not heard that the Baron is with us?"