At all events I had made my explosive, and that was one great step towards a solution of some sort.  If McMurtrie was prepared to play the game with me I should in a few days be in what the newspapers call “a position of comparative affluence,” while if his intentions were less straightforward I should at least have some definite idea as to where I was.  Sonia’s promised disclosures were a guarantee of that.

But apart from these considerations the mere fact of having Joyce sitting beside me in the boat while we bowled along cheerfully through the water was quite enough in itself to account for my new-found happiness.  One realizes some things in life with curious abruptness, and I knew now how deeply and passionately I loved her.  I suppose I had always done so really, but she had been little more than a child in the old Chelsea days, and the sort of brotherly tenderness and pride I had had for her must have blinded me to the truth.

Anyhow it was out now; out beyond any question of doubt or argument.  She was as necessary and dear to me as the stars are to the night, and it seemed ridiculously impossible to contemplate any sort of existence without her.  Not that I wasted much energy attempting the feat; the present was sufficiently charming to occupy my entire time.

We passed Leigh and Southend, the former with its fleet of fishing-smacks and the latter with its long unlovely pier, and then nosed our way delicately into the Jenkin Swatch, that convenient ditch which runs right across the mouth of the Thames.  The sun was now high in the sky, and one could see signs of activity on the various barges that were hanging about the neighbourhood waiting for the tide.

I pointed away past the Nore Lightship towards a bit of rising ground on the low-lying Sheppey coast.

“That’s about where our pals are hanging out,” I said.  “There’s a little deep-water creek there, which Tommy and I used to use sometimes, and according to Mr. Gow their bungalow is close by.”

Joyce peered out under her hand across the intervening water.  “It’s a nice situation,” she observed, “for artists.”

I laughed.  “Yes,” I said.  “They are so close to Sheerness and Shoeburyness, and other places of beauty.  I expect they’ve done quite a lot of quiet sketching.”

We reached the end of the Swatch, and leaving Queenborough, with its grim collection of battleships and coal hulks, to starboard, we stood out to sea along the coastline.  It was a fairly long sail to the place which I had pointed out to Joyce, but with a light breeze behind her the Betty danced along so gaily that we covered the distance in a surprisingly short time.

As we drew near, Joyce got out Tommy’s field-glasses from the cabin, and kneeling up on the seat in the well, focused them carefully on the spot.

“There’s the entrance to the creek all right,” she said, “but I don’t see any sign of a bungalow anywhere.”  She moved the glasses slowly from side to side.  “Oh, yes,” she exclaimed suddenly, “I’ve got it now—­right up on the cliff there, away to the left.  One can only just see the roof, though, and it seems some way from the creek.”