"I'll row myself ashore," I said, "and leave the dinghy on the beach.
I shall be back about four o'clock, if that's not too early for you.
We ought to get our explosion over before there's any one about."
Joyce nodded. "I don't mind how early you come. The sooner the better."
"Try and get some sleep," I added; "you'll be tired out tomorrow if you don't."
"I'll try," said Joyce simply; "but I don't think I shall. I'm not even sure I want to."
I kissed her once more, and slipping down into the dinghy, pulled off for the shore. Everything around was dark and silent—the faint splash of my oars alone breaking the utter stillness. Landing at my usual spot, more by luck than judgment, I tugged the boat up out of reach of the tide, and then, turning round, waved good-night to the Betty.
It was too dark to see anything, but I think Joyce sent me back my message.
CHAPTER XIX
LAUNCHING A NEW INVENTION
The eastern sky was just flushing into light when I got back to the creek at four o'clock. It was a beautiful morning—cool and still—with the sweet freshness of early dawn in the air, and the promise of a long unclouded day of spring sunshine.
I tugged the dinghy down to the water, and pushed off for the Betty, which looked strangely small and unreal lying there in the dim, mysterious twilight. The sound I made as I drew near must have reached Joyce's ears. She was up on deck in a moment, fully dressed, and with her hair twisted into a long bronze plait that hung down some way below her waist. She looked as fresh and fair as the dawn itself.