As he walked up the pier, with a large paper bag under his arm, he became aware of a tall man who was doing sentry-go before a Gladstone bag that stood on the coping opposite the ladder; and who, observing his approach, came forward to meet him.
“Here you are, then, Rodney,” was Varney’s rather unoriginal greeting.
“Yes,” replied Rodney, “and here I’ve been for nearly half an hour. Purcell gone?”
“Bless you! yes; long ago,” answered Varney.
“I didn’t see him at the station. What train was he going by?”
“I don’t know. He said something about taking Falmouth on the way; had some business or other there. But I expect he’s gone to have a feed at one of the hotels. We got hung up in a fog—that’s why I’m so late; I’ve been up to buy some prog.”
“Well,” said Rodney, “bring it on board. It’s time we were under way. As soon as we are outside, I’ll take charge and you can go below and stoke up at your ease.”
The two men descended the ladder and proceeded at once to hoist the sails and cast off the shore-ropes. A few strokes of an oar sent them clear of the lee of the pier, and in a few minutes the yacht Sandhopper was once more outside, heading south with a steady breeze from east-north-east.
Chapter II.
In Which Margaret Purcell Receives a Letter
Daylight dies hard in the month of June and night comes but tardily into her scanty reversion. The clock on the mantelpiece stood at half-past nine, and candles twinkled on the supper table, but even now the slaty-grey band of twilight was only just stealing up behind the horizon to veil the fading glories of the western sky.