CHAPTER XXX

ARIADNE

A few days later an automobile—­not Audrey’s but a large limousine—­bumped, with slow and soft dignity, across the railway lines which diversify the quays of Boulogne harbour and, having hooted in a peculiar manner, came to a stop opposite nothing in particular.

“Here we are,” said Mr. Gilman, reaching to open the door.  “You can see her masthead light.”

It was getting dark.  Behind, over the station, a very faint flush lightened the west, and in front, across the water, and reflected in the water, the thousand lamps of the town rose in tiers to the lofty church which stood out a dark mass against the summer sky.  On the quays the forms of men moved vaguely among crates and packages, and on the water, tugs and boats flitted about, puffing, or with the plash of oars, or with no sound whatever.  And from the distance arrived the reverberation of electric trams running their courses in the maze of the town.

Madame Piriac and Audrey descended, after Mr. Gilman, from the car and Mr. Gilman turned off the electric light in the interior and shut the door.

“Do not trouble about the luggage, I beg you,” said Mr. Gilman, breathing, as usual, rather noticeably. “Bon soir, Leroux.  Don’t forget to meet the nine-thirty-five.”  This last to the white-clad chauffeur, who saluted sharply.

At the same moment two sailors appeared over the edge of the quay, and a Maltese cross of light burst into radiance at the end of a sloping gangway, whose summit was just perched on the solid masonry of the port.  The sailors were clothed in blue, with white caps, and on their breasts they bore the white-embroidered sign:  “Ariadne, R.T.Y.C.”

“Look lively, lads, with the luggage,” said Mr. Gilman.

“Yes, sir.”

Then another figure appeared under the Maltese cross.  It was clad in white ducks, with a blue reefer ornamented in gold, and a yachting cap crowned in white:  a stoutish and middle-aged figure, much like Mr. Gilman himself in bearing and costume, except that Mr. Gilman had no gold on his jacket.

“Well, skipper!” greeted Mr. Gilman, jauntily and spryly.  In one moment, in one second, Mr. Gilman had grown at least twenty years younger.

“Captain Wyatt,” he presented the skipper to the ladies.  “And this is Mr. Price, my secretary, and Doctor Cromarty,” as two youths, clothed exactly to match Mr. Gilman, followed the skipper up the steep incline of the gangway.

And now Audrey could see the Ariadne lying below, for it was only just past low water and the tide was scarcely making.  At the next berth higher up, with lights gleaming at her innumerable portholes and two cranes hard at work producing a mighty racket on her, lay a Channel steamer, which, by comparison with the yacht, loomed enormous, like an Atlantic liner.  Indeed, the yacht seemed a very little and a very lowly and a very flimsy flotation on the dark water, and her illuminated deck-house was no better than a toy.  On the other hand, her two masts rose out of the deep high overhead and had a certain impressiveness, though not quite enough.