In the meantime what had become of Lamport? When he entered the street again he found that it had practically given over raining, and the moon was shining brightly behind the dark masses of clouds that glided slowly after each other. Lamport looked up with an expression of relief, and his first thoughts were to make his way back to his lodgings as fast as possible, change his wet things, and sleep, if he could, over the events of the past few hours. He changed his mind, however, and, hailing a cab, told the man to drive him to the quay. Why he did this it is impossible to explain. It was the working of that fatality which was leading him to the reaping of the harvest. Perhaps the knowledge that Dungaree was on his track induced him to do this. He wanted to think. Perhaps an indefinite idea of escaping, the forlorn hope of being able to get to sea somehow, moved him. And so he went. When he reached the quay he dismissed his cab, and, walking to the end of the pier, leaned over the chains and listened to the _lap_, _lap_, _lap_ of the waters against the stone walls. Under the lee of the pier was a small fleet of boats securely fastened one to the other, and heaving in unison with the motion of the sea. The myriad stars of the street lamps twinkled behind him, and the signal lights from the tall masts of the shipping in the harbour shone like beacons overhead. A high wind had arisen, an augury of fair weather, and the now rapidly moving clouds alternately obscured and unveiled the moonlight. From the far distance came the dull boom of the breakers as they beat against the head of the island, and occasionally there was a jarring sound as the sides of the boats grated against each other. Lamport, leaning over the chains of the pier, noticed not one of these things. If he saw, or heard, they had no more effect on him than the flickering of one's fingers before the eyes of a blind horse. Yet Lamport unconsciously began to think of the past. Possibly the danger he had escaped and the hour were not without their influence on him. After all, he had nothing to fear, he repeated to himself. There was not the remotest possibility of Bill meeting him. Anyway he would make that possibility as small as it could be by shipping himself off this very day. And while he was thinking Bill came up the pier, walking rapidly with that rolling lurch peculiar to sailors. Lamport was unconscious of this. He never heard the footfalls behind him, and, if he did, paid no attention to them. When Bill was scarce ten yards off, Lamport lighted a fusee and held it to his pipe. The sudden hiss of the match and the flare of light stopped Dungaree at once, and, as the blaze lit up Lamport's face, Bill saw from the gesture, the poise of the head, the cunning glitter of the eye, that he had found his man. He drew back for a moment, and waited till Lamport had lit his pipe and flung the end of his fusee away. Bill felt the veins on his forehead stand out like knotted ropes.