“Quick--this way!” he whispered, and taking Barebone's arm he led him through the bushes. He halted in a little open space between the ilex and the river-wall, which is fifteen feet high at the meeting of the creek and the larger stream. “There are three men, who are not Farlingford men, on the outer side of the sea-wall below the rectory landing. Turner must have placed them there. I'll be even with him yet. There is a large fishing-smack lying at anchor inside the Ness--just across the marsh. It is the 'Petite Jeanne.' I found this out while you were in there. I could hear your voices.” “Could you hear what he said?” “No,” answered Colville, with a sudden return to his old manner, easy and sympathetic. “No--this is no time for joking, I can tell you that. You have had a narrow escape, I assure you, Barebone. That man, the Captain of the 'Petite Jeanne,' is well known. There are plenty of people in France who want to get quietly rid of some family encumbrance--a man in the way, you understand, a son too many, a husband too much, a stepson who will inherit--the world is full of superfluities. Well, the Captain of the 'Petite Jeanne' will take them a voyage for their health to the Iceland fisheries. They are so far and so remote--the Iceland fisheries. The climate is bad and accidents happen. And if the 'Petite Jeanne' returns short-handed, as she often does, the other boats do the same. It is only a question of a few entries in the custom-house books at Fecamp. Do you see?” “Yes,” admitted Barebone, thoughtfully. “I see.” “I suppose it suggested itself to you when you were on board, and that is why you took the first chance of escape.” “Well, hardly; but I escaped, so it does not matter.” “No,” acquiesced Colville. “It doesn't matter. But how are we to get out of this? They are waiting for us under the sea-wall. Is there a way across the marsh?” “Yes--I know a way. But where do you want to go to-night?” “Out of this,” whispered Colville, eagerly. “Out of Farlingford and Suffolk before the morning if we can. I tell you there is a French gunboat at Harwich, and another in the North Sea. It may be chance and it may not. But I suspect there is a warrant out against you. And, failing that, there is the 'Petite Jeanne' hanging about waiting to kidnap you a second time. And Turner's at the bottom of it, damn him!” Again Dormer Colville allowed a glimpse to appear of another man quite different from the easy, indolent man-of-the-world, the well-dressed adventurer of a day when adventure was mostly sought in drawing-rooms, when scented and curled dandies were made or marred by women. For a moment Colville was roused to anger and seemed capable of manly action. But in an instant the humour passed and he shrugged his shoulders and gave a short, indifferent laugh beneath his breath.