Sallie was ready and waiting at the companion-hatch on the poop, as pretty as a picture in the sables Captain Dove had given her a year before—after a very lucrative season of poaching on the Siberian coast. As soon as she caught sight of them she came forward, followed by Ambrizette, whose appearance, in cloak and turban, was even a worse offence to Slyne's fastidious taste than Captain Dove's had been.
"What a calamitous circus!" he muttered between set teeth. "I must get rid of those two somehow—and soon. But till then—
"My car's at the back of those coal-wagons there," he told Captain Dove with great dignity, and Captain Dove turned to the engine-room hatch.
"Below there!" he called down. "Is that Mr. Brasse? I'm off now, Brasse. You'll carry out all my instructions, eh? And—don't quarrel with Da Costa, d'ye hear?"
"Ay, ay, sir," answered a dreary voice from the depths below, and Captain Dove faced about again to find Sallie, flushed and anxious, waiting with Ambrizette at the gangway.
"Come on," he ordered irascibly, and Sallie followed him down the plank. Ambrizette shuffled fearfully after her, and Slyne came last, his chin in the air, triumphant.
He led the way to his car, and was gratified to observe its salutary effect on Captain Dove's somewhat contemptuous demeanour. The little policeman in charge of it pending its opulent owner's return, came forward, touching his képi, which further impressed Captain Dove, uncomfortably. Slyne handed Sallie into the tonneau, and Ambrizette after her, tossed the policeman a further tip which secured his everlasting esteem, took his own seat at the wheel, and was hastily followed by Captain Dove.
"Where are we bound for?" asked Captain Dove, holding his top-hat on with both hands, as Slyne took the road toward Sampierdarena at a round pace.
"Don't talk to the man at the wheel," answered Slyne, and laughed. "We've a hundred miles or so ahead of us. Better chuck that old tile of yours away and tie a handkerchief round your head; you'll find that less uncomfortable."
The old man, at a loss for any more effective retort, pulled his antiquated beaver down almost to his ears, folded his long arms across the chest of his flapping frock-coat, and sat silent, scowling at the baggy umbrella between his knees. Nor did he open his mouth again during the swift journey.