Its appearance did not belie it.  At a corner table in the window, looking out over the sea, we disposed of what the waiter described as “two double portions” of that agreeable vegetable, together with an excellent steak and a bottle of sound if slightly too sweet burgundy.  Then over a couple of cigarettes we discussed our immediate plans.

“I think I’d better catch the three-thirty back,” said Joyce.  “I’ve got one or two things I want to do before I meet George, and in any case you mustn’t stay here too long or you’ll miss the tide.”

“That doesn’t really matter,” I said.  “Only I suppose I ought to get back just in case Tommy has turned up.  I can’t leave him sitting on a mud-flat all night.”

Joyce laughed.  “He’d probably be a little peevish in the morning.  Men are so unreasonable.”

I leaned across the table and took her hand.  “When are you coming down again?” I asked.  “Tomorrow?”

Joyce thought for a moment.  “Tomorrow or the next day.  It all depends if I see a chance of getting anything more out of George.  I’ll write to you or send you a wire, dear, anyhow.”

I nodded.  “All right,” I said; “and look here, Joyce; you may as well come straight to the hut next time.  It’s not the least likely there’ll be any one there except me, and if there was you could easily pretend you wanted to ask the way to Tilbury.  You see, if Gow wasn’t about, you would have to pull the dinghy all the way down the bank before you got on board the Betty, and that’s a nice, muddy, shin-scraping sort of job at the best of times.”

“Very well,” said Joyce.  Then squeezing my hand a little tighter she added:  “And my own Neil, you will be careful, won’t you?  I always seem to be asking you that, but, oh my dear, if you knew how horribly frightened I am of anything happening to you.  It will be worse than ever now, after last night.  I don’t seem to feel it when I’m actually with you—­I suppose I’m too happy—­but when I’m away from you it’s just like some ghastly horrible sword hanging over our heads all the time.  Neil darling, as soon as you get this money from McMurtrie—­if you do get it—­can’t we just give up the whole thing and go away and be happy together?”

I lifted her hand and pressed the inside of it against my lips.

“Joyce,” I said, “think what it means.  It’s just funking life—­just giving it up because the odds seem too heavy against us.  I shouldn’t have minded killing Marks in the least.  I should be rather proud of it.  If I had, we would go away together tomorrow, and I should never worry my head as to what any one in the world was saying or thinking about me.”  I paused.  “But I didn’t kill him,” I added slowly, “and that just makes all the difference.”

Joyce’s blue eyes were very near tears, but they looked back steadily and bravely into mine.