Gregory hurried down the steps into the boat, and seated himself in the stern-sheets. The Portuguese boatman pushed off, and in a moment more was pulling his fare to the shore.
“This won’t do!” exclaimed Gregory, when the boat had gone but a short distance.
“What won’t do?” asked Lord Fillgrove.
“The boatman is headed towards the usual landing-place; and the captain’s boat is there, waiting for him.”
“I don’t see that we can help ourselves,” replied his lordship.
“Tell the fellow to pull us to some other place!” persisted Gregory, in mortal terror lest Raymond should discover him when he went on shore.
“But you can’t land anywhere else; the custom-house blackguards will have to overhaul the luggage, don’t you know?”
There was no help for it, and Gregory had to submit to the course of events. But Lord Fillgrove volunteered to do all the talking, and suggested that his companion should pretend to have the toothache, or the ague, or something of that sort. The boat carried them to the usual landing-place; and the boatman handed the baggage out upon the mole. The custom-house officers were very indulgent, and did not detain them beyond a few moments.
The captain’s boat was lying near the shore, and Raymond sat in the stern-sheets. He could not help seeing the passengers; and his lordship waved his adieus; but the fourth officer of the Ville d’Angers did not seem to be satisfied with this parting, and ordered the bowman to pull the boat in to the shore. The officer landed, and seized the hand of Lord Fillgrove.
“I am sorry you are going to leave us,” said he.