I shook my head. "Not yet," I said. "We'll do it early tomorrow morning, before any one's about." Then, digging in my scull to avoid a desolate-looking beacon, I added anxiously: "What about Tommy? Is he coming?"
Joyce nodded. "He'll be down tomorrow. I've got a letter for you from him. He saw Mr. Latimer last night."
"Did he!" said I. "Things are moving with a vengeance. What about the gentle George?"
Joyce laughed softly. "Oh," she said; "I've such lots to tell you, I hardly know where to start."
I ran the boat alongside the Betty, and we both climbed on board.
"Suppose we start by having some tea," I suggested. "I'm dying for a cup."
"You poor dear," said Joyce. "Of course you shall have one. You can read what Tommy says while I'm getting it ready."
She fetched the letter out of the cabin, and sitting in the well I proceeded to decipher the three foolscap pages of hieroglyphics which Tommy is pleased to describe as his handwriting. As far as I could make out they ran as follows:
"MY DEAR NEIL,
"I suppose I oughtn't to begin like that, in case somebody else got hold of the letter. It doesn't matter really, however, because Joyce is bringing it down, and you can tear the damn thing up as soon as you've read it.