“It depends entirely on the next two days.  I shall go back to London tonight and find out if either of my men has got hold of any fresh information.  Then I shall put the whole thing in front of Casement.  If he agrees with me I shall wait till the last possible moment before striking.  We’ve enough evidence about the Devonport case to arrest McMurtrie and Savaroff straight away, but I feel it would be madness while there’s a chance of getting to the bottom of this business.  Perhaps you understand now why I’ve risked everything tonight.  We’re playing for high stakes, Mr. Lyndon, and you—­” he paused—­“well, I’m inclined to think that you’ve the ace of trumps.”

I stood up and faced him.  “I hope so,” I said.  “I’m rather tired of being taken for the Knave.”

“Isn’t there a job for me?” asked Tommy pathetically.  “I’m open for anything, especially if it wants a bit of physical violence.”

“There will probably be a demand for that a little later on,” said Latimer in his quiet drawl.  “At present I want you to come back with me to London.  I shall find plenty for you to do there, Morrison.  The fewer people that are mixed up in this affair the better.”  He turned to me.  “You can take the boat back to Tilbury alone if we go ashore here?”

I nodded, and he once more held out his hand.

“We shall meet again soon,” he said—­“very soon I think.  Have you ever read Longfellow?”

It was such a surprising question that I couldn’t help smiling.

“Not recently,” I said.  “I haven’t been in the mood for poetry the last two or three years.”

He held my hand and his blue eyes looked steadily into mine.

“Ah,” he said.  “I don’t want to be too optimistic, but there’s a verse in Longfellow which I think you might like.”  He paused again.  “It has something to do with the Mills of God,” he added slowly.

CHAPTER XXI

SONIA’S SUDDEN VISIT

One’s feelings are queer things.  Personally I never have the least notion how a particular situation will affect me until I happen to find myself in it.

I should have thought, for instance, that Latimer’s revelations would have left me in a state of vast excitement, but as a matter of fact I don’t think I ever felt cooler in my life.  I believe every other emotion was swallowed up in the relief of finding out something definite at last.

I know anyhow that that was my chief sensation as I rowed the dinghy towards the wet slimy causeway, lit by its solitary lamp.  There was a boat train to town in the early hours of the morning which Latimer had suggested that he and Tommy should catch, and it certainly seemed a safer plan than coming back to Tilbury with me.

When I had parted from them, under the sleepy eye of a depressed-looking night watchman, I returned to the Betty and proceeded to let go my moorings.  I then ran up the sails, and gliding gently past the warships and a big incoming steamer, floated out into the broad peaceful darkness of the Thames estuary.  I was in no hurry, and now that the mist had cleared away it was a perfect night for drifting comfortably up river with the tide.