“Is there not an earlier train than the eleven o'clock?” asked Agar, looking at his watch. There was a singular constraint in his manner which Seymour Michael could not understand. “Yes, there is one at nine forty-five.” “Then let us go by that. We can get something at the station, if we want it.” “Make it a bottle of champagne to celebrate the return of the explorer, and I am your man,” said Michael heartily. “Make it anything you like,” answered Agar, in a gentler voice. He was beginning to come under the influence of Seymour Michael's sweet voice, and of that fascination which nearly all educated Jews unconsciously exercise. He turned and beckoned to Mark Ruthine, who presently joined them, after paying the boatmen. “The nine forty-five is the train,” he said to him. “We may as well walk up. The streets of Plymouth are not pleasant to drive through.” So the cab was sent on with the luggage, and the three men turned to the slope that leads up to the Hoe. There was some sort of constraint over them, and they reached the summit of the ascent without having exchanged a word. When they stood on the Hoe, where the old Eddystone lighthouse is now erected, Seymour Michael turned and looked out over the bay where the ships lay at anchor. “The good old _Mahanaddy_,” he said, “the finest ship I have ever sailed in.” Neither man answered him, but they turned also and looked, standing one on each side of him. Then at last Jem Agar spoke, breaking a silence which had been brooding since the _Mahanaddy_ came out of the Canal. “I want to know,” he said, “exactly how things stand with my people at home.” He continued to look out over the bay towards the _Mahanaddy_, but Mark Ruthine was looking at Seymour Michael. “Yes,” replied the General, “I wanted to talk to you about that. That was really my reason for proposing that we should wait till the second train.” “There cannot be much to say,” said Jem Agar rather coldly. “Well, I wanted to tell you all about it.” “About what?” There was what the Captain had called an uncanny calm in the voice. General Michael did not answer, and Jem turned slowly towards him. “I presume,” he said, “that I am right in taking it for granted that you have carried out your share of the contract?” “My dear fellow, it has been perfectly wonderful. The secret has been kept perfectly.” “By all concerned?” “Eh!--yes.” Michael was glancing furtively at Mark Ruthine, as the fox glances back over his shoulder, not at the huntsman, but at the hounds. “Did you tell them personally, or did you write?” pursued Jem Agar relentlessly. “My dear fellow,” replied Michael, pulling out his watch, “it is a long story, and we must get to the train.” “No,” replied Agar, in the calm voice which raised a sort of “fearful joy” in Ruthine's soul, “we need not be getting to the train yet, and there is no reason for it to be a long story.”