Instead, however, of turning in, he slipped down to the fantail, a small deck at the stern just below the promenade. Passengers seldom went there—and, indeed, weren’t allowed on that deck while the steamer was docking or leaving, for the crew worked from there, and it was cumbered with hawsers and chains, capstans, bitts, and other machinery for handling the ship. When she was under way, however, the chains across the passage were taken down. One of his men was on the fantail when Pentecost got there, but no sign of recognition passed between them. The other man was in the forward part of the boat, moving unobtrusively about to see where officers and crew were stationed as the steamer negotiated the canal, which she was about to do. Both men on the fantail made the closest observations possible as she slid quietly through, the passage occupying something like thirty-five minutes, for they had her down to less than half speed. It was dusky twilight when the _North Land_ entered the canal, and quite dark as she emerged at the other end. And when she _did_ emerge and swung out into the shimmering and light-dotted open of Buzzards Bay, Pentecost went at once to his cabin, slipping forward by the outside starboard passage, to the door of the saloon lobby, and from there up the stairway to the promenade deck, thus keeping it nicely in the shade as to what part of the ship he’d come from. The week that followed was one of hard work for Mr. Pentecost, arranging for the execution of his extraordinary plan of campaign—assembling the parts, as you might say, arranging for “the market” in most of the large cities, instructing his men, and all the while perfecting his defensive system to cover any possible contingency. For Haworth, after he had finished with the very painful task of asking old Mrs. Temple to remain away from the house until the machine he’d sold was crated and taken away, the waiting wasn’t so hard as it had been, for now he was uplifted by the realization that at last he’d be able to come to the rescue of the one who was dearer to him than his life. * * * * * Early one evening, soon after the Harker & Pentecost visit I’ve just been telling you about, he went to see her. He’d been keeping away for weeks—months, it seemed to him—in order to spare her the trying ordeal with Augustus—his drunken and bestial abuse, his threats of violence, that were sure to follow his visits. But now he wanted her to have the comfort of knowing that help was coming—that it would be here in a few days. And it was something he wanted to say to her in person—say with his mouth and lips and eyes and heart and entire being—not convey in the form of a letter, a cold series of words which in themselves meant next to nothing. Making as sure as possible of a time when Findlay wasn’t there or likely to be, he went to the little cottage.