"You shall judge if in this darkness I steer you straight for St. Lide's Quay; and I take you to witness--look over your shoulder--there is no lamp on the quay-head to guide me, or at least none visible." She laughed again, but on the instant grew serious. "Yes," she added, "I can find my way among the Islands, I thank God." And this puzzled him yet more. "You know the Islands; you are glad to return to them?" She nodded. "Yet you do not wish to be recognised?" She nodded again. "I came, you see, sooner than I intended. The _Milo_ was clean out of her course." "That goes without saying," said he, gravely. "She was bound for Plymouth. So, you see, this little misadventure has shortened my journey by days." She paused. "No; I ought not to speak of it flippantly. I shall be very thankful in my prayers to-night ... all those women and children...." Again she paused. "Is my hand trembling?" she asked, lifting it and laying it again on the tiller, where it rested firm as a rock. Only the jewels quivered on her rings and bracelets, and their beauty, arresting the Commandant's gaze, held him silent. "To be frank with you," she went on, "I left the ship in a hurry, because I was afraid of being thanked. I don't like publicity--much; and just now it would have spoiled everything." This explanation enlightened the Commandant not at all. "Besides," she added with a practical air, "I left a note with my maid, to be given to the captain; so he won't imagine that I've tumbled overboard; and she can send my boxes ashore to-morrow, if you will be kind enough to fetch them before the _Milo_ weighs." "But, meanwhile?" he hazarded. "Oh, meanwhile, I must manage somehow for the night. I slipped a few things into my hand-bag here." She drew her fur cloak a little aside, and displayed it--a small satchel hanging from her waist by a silver chain. The Commandant had a glimpse at the same moment of a skirt of rose-coloured silk, brocaded in a pattern of silver. "And when we land," he asked, "where am I to take you?" "I am in your hands." He stared at her, dismayed. "But you have friends?" "None who would remember me; not a soul, at least, in St. Lide's." "There is the Plume of Feathers Inn, to be sure----" "If you recommend it," she said, demurely, as he hesitated. He almost lost his temper. "Recommend it? Of course I don't." "Well, from what I remember of the Plume of Feathers--unless it has altered----" "Wouldn't it be wiser to turn back?" he suggested, desperately, staring into the fog, in which the lights of the _Milo_ had long since disappeared. "What? When we have this moment opened the quay-light? There!... didn't I promise you that I knew my way among the Islands?"