She drew back, for the big man suddenly lurched in her direction, and, indeed, almost, against her.

“Beg pardon, miss,” he said, touching his slouch hat.  “Anything I can do for you, anybody you’re looking for?”

“No, oh, no!” said Ida, blushing and turning away.  Mr. Joffler, for it was that genial Australian, nodded and stretched his moon-like face in a smile.

“Thought you’d come to say ‘good-bye’ to someone, p’raps.  Wish it was me!  Though, if it was, I’ve an idea that I should stay on—­air or no air—­and I’m blest if there ain’t precious little about this morning!  Hi, there!  All ready?  Bless it all, we’ll be too late for the tide if he don’t come,” he said to the captain, who stood with one foot on the taffrail, an expression of impatience on his weather-beaten face.

“Like enough he ain’t comin’, Mr. Joffler,” he said.  “Them kind o’ gents is always slippery.”

“I dessay.  Though I didn’t think as this one was one of that kind.  Too much grit about him—­ah, and I was not mistaken!  Here he is!  Get ready there!”

He turned, and Ida, instinctively turning with him, saw a tall figure clad in a serge suit making its way quickly through the crowd of busy dock-men and idly lounging spectators.  He came straight to the big, fat man, who greeted him jovially and loudly, and they passed side by side on to the vessel.

Ida drew a long breath and passed her hand over her brow.  It was absurd, of course, it was a trick of the imagination, of a wearied and overstrained brain—­but the tall figure in the blue serge—­ah, how like it was to that of Stafford!

It disappeared with that of the big man into the vessel, and, with a sigh, she was coming away when she saw the two men coming along the deck and mount to the quarter.  The fat man was talking and laughing, but the man in the blue serge was grave and silent, as if he was lost in thought and not listening.

Suddenly, as she paused, the younger, slimmer figure turned in her direction and uttered a cry, a cry almost of terror.  Was she demented?  Had her longing, her aching longing for a sight of him called up this vision of Stafford?  Unless she were out of her mind, the victim of a strange hallucination, it was he himself who stood there, his face, pale and haggard, turned towards her.

“Stafford!” she cried, unconsciously, and her hand gripped the iron rail in front of her.

As if he had heard her—­though it was impossible that her voice could reach him through the shouts of the sailors, the lowing and bleating of the cattle—­he raised his head and looked in her direction.  Their eyes met and were enchained for a moment, which seemed an eternity; then the blood flew to his face, leaving it the next moment paler than before.  He swung round to the fat man by his side and clutched his arm.

“Wait!  Stop the vessel!  I want to go ashore!” he said, hoarsely.

Mr. Joffler stared at him, then laughed.