‘In another twenty minutes we shall be outside Alderney harbour. I was talking matters over, some minutes ago, with Ozanne.’ Linda inspected the white hand, resting on the bulwark, with attention. ‘And he has most good-naturedly consented to let me and Robbie land. By signalling promptly for a boat we shall not detain you _Princess_ people five minutes. There is the dearest little primitive hotel in Alderney, close to Maxwell Grimsby’s diggings. You remember my telling you about it?’ Gaston remembered Mrs. Thorne’s telling him about the dearest little primitive hotel. ‘The Doctor will have a good night’s rest to recruit his strength, and to-morrow afternoon, if the day is warm, we shall make our way back to our home and infant by the Cherbourg steamer.’ Now Maxwell Grimsby, a gunner by profession, a painter by love, was one of Gaston Arbuthnot’s best artist friends--best, too, in the higher acceptation of the elastic word. Grimsby was no manufacturer of prettiness, no amateur idler. Did not a series of beach studies bearing the well-known initials ‘M. G.’ testify to the world how diligently this very summer’s enforced imprisonment in Alderney was put to use? During the past fortnight Gaston had constantly vacillated in his intention of looking up his friend, for ever declaring how much better work a man might do on the grand old rock, yonder, than disturbed by the hundred distractions of pleasant, idle, sociable, little Sarnia--never starting, for ever wishing he were gone! Here was occasion to his hand, a chance of looking up Grimsby without even the preliminary trouble of packing one’s portmanteau! ‘Of course you could not come with us,’ asserted Linda, in her little undertone of mockery. ‘Mrs. Arbuthnot is such a child! She would conjure up a dozen possible horrors if you were to be absent from her so long.’ ‘I am not sure that deserting the _Princess_ would be a courteous action to our hosts,’ said Gaston Arbuthnot, hesitating under the first touch of temptation. ‘You are made of poorer stuff than your cousin,’ thought Linda, glancing, for a second, at his handsome face. ‘To gain a victory over Monsieur Geoffrey would be to gain a victory indeed.’ Then, aloud--‘If we were to carry away any of the younger people I should feel it treason to desert the _Princess_,’ she observed. ‘I would not go, indeed, if Robbie and I were wanted as chaperons. Considering the existence of Mrs. Verschoyle and Miss Tighe--in talking of chaperons, Mr. Arbuthnot, you and I must never forget Miss Tighe--I think Doctor and Mrs. Thorne may very well be spared. For you it is different.’ ‘In what way?’ asked Gaston, wincing inwardly under her sarcasms. ‘Oh, different, altogether. Too much depends upon your presence. Pray do not think of such a revolutionary proceeding as taking flight. You would never be allow--I mean, I am sure you would not find it advantageous to run away. What messages do you send to Mr. Grimsby?’ ‘None.’