"Come up. All clear!"
Mr. Spokesly drew Evanthia upon the gangway and guided her steps upward. Plouff stood at the top, his head thrust forward and his hand gripping the bulwark as though about to fling himself upon them. His globular eyes and glossy curling moustache made him look like some furtive and predatory animal. He slipped down the gangway, got into the boat, and pushed off. Plouff was off to have a night free from responsibility. His chief officer was on board. Sacré! His chief officer had joli goût. And he, Plouff, had his eyes about him. And his wits. There was something behind this. So, not a word!
And the two passengers, whom he had transported so neatly and without arousing either the watchman or the suspicious picket-boats, went into the cabin and, after closing the door, Mr. Spokesly lit the swinging lamp. Evanthia looked about her.
"A ship," she said absently, revolving the novel idea in her mind.
"You must go to bed," said he gravely. "And you must stay down in there until I tell you it is all clear. Do you understand?"
"Yes, I understand."
"I'll show you," he said, and he carefully piloted her down the companion. She leaned forward daintily to peer as he lit her lamp.
"It's the best I could do," he whispered.
"Beautiful. Tck!" she saw her clothes in the drawer he opened and patted his arm. She regarded him curiously, as though seeing him in a fresh light. "You are very good to me."
"Easy to be that," he muttered, holding her and breathing heavily. "Good-night!"