Between the man upon the bridge and the woman on the forward deck of the tug there was from time to time a little conversation. They called to one another above the throbbing of the engines and the wash of the sea alongside, and in the sound of their voices there was a note of attempted cheerfulness. Practically they were alone, with the exception of the sailing-master on the bridge. The crew of the ship were nowhere in sight. On the tug no one but the woman was to be seen. All around them stretched the fog-ridden sea. Then at last, in answer to a question from the man on the bridge, the woman said: "Yes--I think I had better." An order was given. The tug's bell rang in her engine-room, and the engine slowed and stopped. For some time the tug continued her headway, ranging alongside the ship as before. Then she began to fall behind, at first slowly, then with increasing swiftness. The outbound ship continued on her way, and between the two the water widened and widened. But the fog was thick; in another moment the two would be shut out from each other's sight. The moment of separation was come. Then Lloyd, standing alone on that heaving deck, drew herself up to her full height, her head a little back, her blue eyes all alight, a smile upon her lips. She spoke no word. She made no gesture, but stood there, the smile yet upon her lips, erect, firm, motionless; looking steadily, calmly, proudly into Bennett's eyes as his ship carried him farther and farther away. Suddenly the fog shut down. The two vessels were shut from each other's sight. As Bennett stood leaning upon the rail of the bridge behind him, his hands deep in the pockets of his greatcoat, his eyes fixed on the visible strip of water just ahead of his ship's prow, the sailing-master, Adler, approached and saluted. "Beg pardon, sir," he said, "we're just clear of the last buoy; what's our course now, sir?" Bennett glanced at the chart that Adler held and then at the compass affixed to the rail of the bridge close at hand. Quietly he answered: "Due north."