“Just for a few minutes, then,” she said.
I held out my hand and swung her up. She gazed round the deck and rigging with profound interest—a breathless, hungry interest—touching to see.
“You’ve seen her before, haven’t you?” I said.
“I’ve not been on board before,” she answered.
This struck me in passing as odd; but then I had only too few details from Davies about his days at Norderney in September.
“Of course, _that_ is what puzzled me,” she exclaimed, suddenly, pointing to the mizzen. “I knew there was something different.”
Davies had belayed the painter, and now had to explain the origin of the mizzen. This was a cumbrous process, and his hearer’s attention soon wandered from the subject and became centred in him—his was already more than half in her—and the result was a golden opportunity for the discerning onlooker. It was very brief, but I made the most of it; buried deep a few regrets, did a little heartfelt penance, told myself I had been a cynical fool not to have foreseen this, and faced the new situation with a sinking heart; I am not ashamed to admit that, for I was fond of Davies, and I was keen about the quest.
She had never been a guilty agent in that attempt on Davies. Had she been an unconscious tool or only an unwilling one? If the latter, did she know the secret we were seeking? In the last degree unlikely, I decided. But, true to the compact, whose importance I now fully appreciated, I flung aside my diplomatic weapons, recoiling, as strongly, or nearly as strongly, let us say, from any effort direct or indirect to gain information from such a source. It was not our fault if by her own conversation and behaviour she gave us some idea of how matters stood. Davies already knew more than I did.
We spent a few minutes on deck while she asked eager questions about our build and gear and seaworthiness, with a quaint mixture of professional acumen and personal curiosity.
“How _did_ you manage alone that day?” she asked Davies, suddenly.
“Oh, it was quite safe,” was the reply. “But it’s much better to have a friend.”
She looked at me; and—well, I would have died for Davies there and then.
“Father said you would be safe,” she remarked, with decision—a slight excess of decision, I thought. And at that turned to some rope or block and pursued her questioning. She found the compass impressive, and the trappings of that hateful centreboard had a peculiar fascination for her. Was this the way we did it in England? was her constant query.