There was the appointment at his rooms at 11 o'clock when he would place the concession in Mr. Torrington's hands. That would be a big moment. He could imagine Cranbourne's unbridled enthusiasm, Lord Almont's congratulations in the style of P. G. Wodehouse, and Cassis, that person of dry ashes and parchment, unbending to the greatness of the occasion. He, Barraclough, was a made man, every newspaper in the country would send its reporters to clamour at his doors, every charity seek his aid when the story and the magnitude of his find became known. From an ordinary commonplace individual, he would be transformed into a figure of the age, the observed of all eyes, the target of every tongue. And yet, the world at his feet, the wealth, the prominence, the power, the achievement, faded and dwindled into nothing at all beside one absurd but adorable longing. It was the thought of Isabel sitting on the floor, hugging her knees, resting her chin upon them, looking at him with great wide open eyes, smiling at him with moist trembling lips. Over head the aerial fizzed and crackled as his message voyaged forth into space. The tiny dots between the Eddystone and the land took form and detail and became the brown sails of a fishing fleet lolling idly in the bay. A hand on his shoulder aroused him from his reverie and he turned to find Jean Prevost standing beside him. Barraclough pointed to the North East. "Number fifty-seven," he said. The old skipper focussed a pair of binoculars and steadied them against a stay of the funnel. "Zere," he said, and pointed at a solitary sail to the West of its fellows. "Heem! You see?" Barraclough nodded. "Diamond's a reliable chap. Always as good as his word. How long shall we be?" "Quarter hour--ten minit." Nothing more was said until the "Felice" came alongside the solitary fishing boat from the bows of which a tall bronzed seaman gave them a welcoming hail. "Good-bye and good luck, Jean Prevost," said Barraclough. "You'll hear from me in a day or two." "And blerdy good luck to you," said the Frenchman gripping the extended hand. Barraclough dropped over the side and landed on the stern sheets of Number 57. A bell clanked and the "Felice" lurched away ruffing the glassy water with her screw. "Be ye right?" demanded Diamond, drawing up the cable of his anchor. "Sure thing," said Barraclough. "Let her go." The anchor came out of the water with a plop, the brown sail was twisted and a little auxiliary oil engine began to snort. "Wind's settin' just right," said Diamond, the sheet in one hand and the tiller in the other. "Ye 'ad a good time?" "First rate. Tell you all about it one of these days."