He brought his car slowly up behind the other one. The driver had raised his goggles and was seated in an impassive attitude whilst his license was being examined. Presently the little green book was returned to him and he moved slowly down the village street. Lavendale's license was inspected in the same fashion, after which they, too, followed down the village street, which terminated abruptly in a small dock, reached by an arm of the sea. Lavendale turned his car into the gateway of the inn, and together, a few moments later, they strolled down to the harbour. Only a thin stream of water covered the bottom of the estuary, scarcely enough to float a rowing boat, and one or two sailing barques were lying high and dry upon the mud. The stranger, who had drawn up his car by the side of the wall, was standing looking out seaward through a pair of field-glasses. Lavendale gazed across the marshes in the same direction, doubtfully. 'Say, you don't expect any ship that could cross the North Sea to come into dock here, do you?' he asked. She nodded. 'Quite a large ship could come up at high tide,' she explained, 'but to-night they will not wait for the deep water. They will anchor outside and sail up in a smaller boat. Come for a walk a little way. That man is watching us.' They strolled along a sandy lane, through a gate on the left opening on to the marshes. It was a grey and sombre evening, strangely still, colourless alike on sea and land and sky. A thin handful of cattle was stretched across the dyke-riven plain, a crowd of seagulls flapped their wings wearily overhead. Everywhere else an intense and almost mournful silence prevailed. Suzanne climbed to the top of one of the dykes and looked intently seaward. 'You see!' she exclaimed, pointing. A small boat was anchored at the opening of the estuary. Beyond, almost on the horizon, was a thin line of smoke. 'They will not wait for the tide,' she told him, 'not the full tide, that is. They will come up as soon as that sailing boat can make the passage.' 'And who,' Lavendale inquired, 'will be the passenger?' Her eyes flashed for a moment. 'He will be the man,' she said solemnly, 'who seeks to destroy France.' ... They wandered a little way further out into the marshland. The air seemed to possess a peculiar saltiness--even in that slightly moving breeze they could feel the brackish taste upon their lips. They watched the tidal way grow deeper every minute. On either side of them the narrow dykes and curving waterways grew fuller and fuller with the tendrils of the sea. About a mile from the distant coast-line the steamer seemed to have come to an anchor, and the white-sailed boat was fluttering about her. Suzanne took Lavendale's arm. He could feel that she was trembling. 'Look here,' he begged, 'tell me a little more of what is going to happen?'