Standing there, I raised my eyes and looked down to the harbour and the sea. At what I saw, forgetting Kortes’s reproof, I again uttered an oath of surprise and dismay. Smoke poured from the funnel of the yacht. See, she moved! She made for the mouth of the harbour. She set her course for the sea. Where was she going? I did not care to answer that. She must not go. It was vital that she should stay ready for me by the jetty. My scruples about leaving the house vanished before this more pressing necessity. Without an instant’s delay, with hardly an instant’s thought, I put my best foot foremost and ran, as a man runs for his life, along the road towards the town. As I started I thought I heard Mouraki’s voice from the window above my head beginning in its polite wondering tones, ‘Why in the world, my dear Wheatley--?’ Ah, did he not know why? I would not stop for him. On I went. I reached the main road. I darted down the steep street. Women started in surprise at me, children scurried hastily out of my way. I was a very John Gilpin without a horse. I did not think myself able to run so far or so fast; but apprehension gave me legs, excitement breath, and love--yes, love--why deny it now?--love speed; I neither halted nor turned nor failed till I reached the jetty. But there I sank exhausted against the wooden fencing, for the yacht was hard on a mile out to sea and putting yards and yards between herself and me at every moment. Again I sprang up and waved my handkerchief. Two or three of Mouraki’s soldiers who were lounging about stared at me stolidly; a fisherman laughed mockingly; the children had flocked after me down the street and made a gaping circle round me. The note to Denny was in my hand. Denny was far out of my reach. What possessed the boy? Hard were the names that I called myself for having neglected Kortes’s advice. What were the cottage and the whereabouts of Constantine compared with the presence of my friends and the yacht? A hope ran through me. Perhaps they were only passing an hour and would turn homewards soon. I strained my eager eyes after them. The yacht held on her course, straight, swift, relentless. She seemed to be carrying with her Phroso’s hopes of rescue, mine of safety; her buoyant leap embodied Mouraki’s triumph. I turned from watching, sick at heart, half-beaten and discouraged; and, as I turned, a boy ran up to me and thrust a letter into my hand, saying: ‘The gentleman on the yacht left this for my lord. I was about to carry it up when I saw my lord run through the street, and I followed him back.’ The letter bore Denny’s handwriting. I tore it open with eager fingers.