you are right. It is foolish of me. Allen, I have come to say that I shall be very glad to accompany you on your cruise."
"I am delighted to hear that. A good blow in the North Sea will do you good, if your mind is so upset."
"Allen," said Carew, pulling himself together and speaking with more self-possession, "I wish I could speak to you of the business that is troubling me, but I am not at liberty to do so. It concerns others."
"I don't want to know anything about it, old man; but I am sure you will soon get out of your trouble, whatever it is. With an easy conscience no man is miserable for long. And now that I have secured you as a hand, I have a sufficient crew. So we will start to-morrow morning. Will you be ready by then?"
"I am ready now. You see I have brought my baggage with me."
"Then, as we have to catch an early train to-morrow, you had better sleep to-night in my chambers; I can put you up. Our destination is the Dutch coast, old man, and we should have a jolly time of it. You have not yet seen my new boat, the Petrel—a yawl of twenty-eight tons, yacht measurement; a splendid sea-boat. I would go anywhere in her. She is now lying off Erith."
Carew had been listening attentively. "What crew do you carry?" he asked.
"Ah, let me tell you that you will have lots of work to do. We shall be but three all told. I have shipped one hand only—Jim, the fisherman, who was with me last year. Another friend was coming with me, but he has disappointed me."
"For how long will you be away?"
"About a fortnight. I have been a bit fagged of late, and want a holiday. I only made up my mind to take this cruise this afternoon. Not a soul but yourself knows we are going."
On hearing this a sigh of relief escaped Carew. Yes, if he were once on board the yacht all trace of him would be lost. He felt almost jubilant as he thought of it; the recent acute tension of his mind had left a sort of hysterical weakness behind, and he alternated easily between exultant hope and profoundest despair.
He reflected that if he could but contrive to reach Erith without being observed by any who knew him, he was safe, at anyrate for some time. But how to do so? It was possible that even already detectives had been set to watch his movements. He must take his chance of that, use all his wits, and incur no risk that could be avoided. Fearing to show himself in the streets, more especially in the Strand or Fleet Street, where so many would know him by sight at least, he suggested to Allen that they should send to a neighbouring chop-house for their dinners, and remain quietly in the chambers, instead of dining, as was their wont, at a club. The barrister agreed to this, and therefore had no opportunity that night of meeting any of his friends, and he communicated to no one his intention of sailing on the morrow. He merely left a note for his housekeeper on his table, informing her that he would be out of town for a fortnight, and that his letters were not to be forwarded.
* * * * * *
At an early hour on the following morning a cab was brought round to the door of the barrister's chambers, and the two friends drove off to Charing Cross Station, arriving there but a few minutes before their train started. The chances of anyone who knew him recognising Carew on the way were thus reduced to a minimum. At Erith Allen's man, Jim, was awaiting them with the dinghy. He was a very broad-shouldered, florid-faced man of forty, with a protuberance in one cheek indicating the presence of a quid. He looked exactly what he was—a hardy, North-Sea smackman.
Jim pulled them off to the yacht, and when the solicitor, who was thoroughly at home on a boat, a keen lover of the sea, with yachting as his one innocent pleasure, stood on the white deck, and, looking around, saw how glorious was that summer's day, beheld the river sparkling in the sunshine, thronged with stately ships and picturesque barges tacking up with the flood against the soft south-west wind, a delightful sense of freedom rushed upon him.
Oh, what a thing it was to have left behind him that accursed city, with its weariness, its anxieties, the endless jangles of the law, the feverish play, the guilt, the terrible dread of detection—to have left it for ever!
"Now, Jim, off we go!" cried the skipper. The dinghy was lifted on board, the mainsail was hoisted, then the jib; the moorings were slipt, up went the foresail, and the yacht shot out into the stream; then, obedient to her rudder, bore away, and tore down the river before the freshening breeze on the top of the strong ebb tide. Needless it is to describe that pleasant summer day's sail. Allen was in the highest spirits, and for him the happy hours flew rapidly by. Even Carew, intoxicated with the pure air and sunshine, and the delightful sight of dancing waters, forgot his sin and misery, and felt almost light-hearted for the first time for months; and at last, when the yacht reached the broader water, thinking over his position, he gave a sigh of infinite relief. Now, indeed, he was safe. No fugitive had ever left so little trace behind him.
They were well outside the Thames, in the East Swin Channel, before dark. The sun set in a golden haze, ominous of storm on the morrow, and then the wind dropped. The yacht sailed very slowly down the English coast during the night, the three men taking it in turn to steer and sleep. At sunrise they were off the Naze, and the sky looked so stormy and the glass fell so rapidly that there was some discussion as to whether it would not be well to put in to Harwich. But Carew was so earnestly opposed to this that the owner decided to push on, and the vessel's head was turned seaward towards the mouth of the Maas. The English coast loomed less and less distinct; but so light was the wind that it was not till midday that they lost all sight of the land. Then the wind began to pipe up suddenly, and seeing nothing but stormy clouds and heaving water around him, Carew's spirits rose wonderfully; a reaction of wild gaiety succeeded his anxiety.
At four it was blowing so hard that they took two reefs in the mainsail and shifted jibs. Shortly before sunset, Carew was taking his turn at the tiller; the others were below. After a while the motion of the yacht became so violent that the owner came on deck to have a look round.
"The wind has freshened a lot this last half-hour, and there's a nasty sea getting up," he said. "It will be blowing a gale of wind before the morning. Well, we have a good craft under our feet."
"She steers wonderfully easily," replied the solicitor. "She's a beautiful boat. I would not mind crossing the Atlantic in her."
"I should think not," said the proud owner. "But look at that vessel across your lee-bow, Carew. What the dickens are they up to on board of her? She's yawing all over the place. First I thought she was on the port-tack; then she seemed as if she was in stays; and now—ah, I see it—she is hove-to."
"She is a small brig," said Carew. "Get the glasses up and see what you can make of her."
Allen dived below, brought up the binoculars, and scanned the vessel. "By Jove!" he cried, "she's in a nice mess. Her bowsprit is carried away, her foretopmast too, and her jib's streaming away like a flag. Hallo! and part of her stem and bulwarks have gone."
"Collision." It was Jim's voice. He had just come on deck, and his quick eye at once realised the brig's mishap. Then he looked at her intently for some moments, and spoke again, in eager tones for him—
"Derelict."
"So she is," cried Allen. "We'll get out the boat and board her. Do you think the sea is too high, Jim?"
Jim said nothing. He was quite ready to risk his life in a cockle-shell in a heavy sea, as all fishermen of the Doggerbank must be. He was not the man to refuse to do what his employer wished, unless the danger were very great indeed. He looked round at the sea, then nodded his head affirmatively.
