“Where are you going?” demanded Mornac’s angry voice. “Do you expect me to stay here while you start for Paris?”
“You have your orders,” said Buckhurst, menacingly.
“Oh, have I? What are they? To stay here when the country is roused—stay here and perhaps be shelled by that damned cruiser out there—”
His voice was stifled as though a hand had clutched his throat; there came the swift sound of a struggle, the banging of scabbards and spurs, the scuffle of heavy boots.
“Are you mad?” burst out Mornac’s strangled voice.
“Are you?” breathed Buckhurst. “Silence, you fool. Do you obey orders or not?”
Their voices receded. Speed sprang to the door to listen, then ran back to the window.
“Scarlett,” he whispered, “there are the lights of a vessel at anchor off Groix.”
I was beside him in an instant. “It’s the cruiser,” I said. “Oh, Speed, for a chance to signal!”
We looked at each other desperately.