He ate his breakfast, but what it consisted of he did not know. The talkative waiter kept up a running fire of words; but what they meant, or what his answers conveyed, he did not know.
He made up his mind to walk over to Silver Bay, and, as soon as breakfast was over, he asked the way and set off.
The gale had not moderated; and although Cheyne was one of the strongest men in England, he could not make rapid headway against it. In ordinary weather he would have backed himself to walk the four miles in less than three-quarters of an hour. This day, at the end of three-quarters of an hour, he had got little more than halfway.
He was in no hurry, and he liked the wind. He liked to feel it beat against his face and tug at his clothes. He exulted in the conflict, for at every pace he was conquering the enemy. He was in an excited angry humour--in a rage, the first rage he had ever known in all his life--and he exulted in having some kind of foe in front of him.
Then again, if what that loquacious waiter had told him was true, the wind against which he fought there was fighting for him out at sea, was driving that yacht with its accursed passenger towards him. When this thought crossed his mind, he reached out his arms to embrace the wind. It was no longer a foe, but a loyal friend, doing his work with all its might.
He wondered, Would the yacht come in to-day? Almost certainly not. She had, according to the man at the Shropshire Arms, gone to sea two or three days ago. This gale had been blowing only twelve hours, and it was not likely she had been last night within twenty-four hours' sail of this bay. But then one should remember that twenty-four hours of such a gale would do more than three days of light winds. That was so if the light winds had been fair winds, and the gale was a fair wind. But if the light winds had been fair, and this was foul, how would that be? To answer this question, one should know particulars as to the course the yacht had sailed, and where she was when the gale had struck her first. He knew none of these particulars, and therefore he had no choice but to give up trying to solve the problem.
Thanks to this wind, his victim would soon be in his hands. Unless--what an intolerable disappointment that would be!--unless the waves swallowed his victim up, that victim would soon be in his hands. It would be too bad if the sea robbed him of his revenge. Vengeance for an insult to a mother was the inalienable right of a son, and it would be monstrous to take it from him.
He pressed onward through the rain and blinding dust.
What should he do if this man refused to see him? Suppose, when he tried to get aboard that yacht, they would not let him, what should he do? He had never thought of that before. In case they refused to let him go on board, he should have to go on board by force. He should have the strength of ten. Ay, but he should have more than ten against him. He could not hope to fight his way on board, across the deck, down the companion, and into the cabin, against such odds as would be opposed to him.
What should he do? What could he do?