We could not be far away from the shore now, and possibly in five minutes our eyes would be gladdened by a glimpse of the dancing waves shimmering in the tropical night, with the lights of my yacht gleaming there like a beacon of hope.
Yes, Hildegarde was failing.
I could hear her panting; being no experienced sprinter, she had not learned to keep her lips together while she ran.
There was danger of a collapse.
Really, this would not do at all.
I could hardly pick her up and carry her, even though she were willing; but there was a way in which I might assist.
The now useless weapon I thrust into a pocket, changed that miserable handbag to my other set of digits, and then, for the second time that night, without so much as “by your leave,” threw an arm around Hildegarde.
Did she shrink? Was her hatred for me so bitter that she would face any danger rather than suffer such contact? Well, I did not feel any movement of this sort, nor would it have made the least difference to me in the desperate condition of affairs that confronted us.
Now we made out better.
With such assistance as I could give, Hildegarde was enabled to keep up.