“Disappeared. Your rubber valves closed the hole.” “Then he tried to sink you.” “Undoubtedly,” I answered. “It was your wooden boat and cage of caema which saved me.” As we made for Folkestone, we met other boats hurrying out on the Channel. Tom had ventured out farther than any one else. One by one, they hailed us, but our captain gave them no news and made on. “I wish I knew what to do,” I said wearily. “I can’t write this thing. I feel stunned and broken. I’m not sure what I ought to do, anyway. Any ordinary or even extraordinary thing is proper journalistic stuff, but this is too big, somehow, for individual use. Yet the one thing that ought to be done is to get the news to the world as soon as possible.” “I don’t know what to tell you,” said Dorothy hesitatingly. “Isn’t your London correspondent to be in Folkestone waiting for you?” “Yes,” I said. “Well, ask him. You and I will go ashore, and Tom can put out with the yacht. Then there will be no chance of the sailors’ telling anything.” “All right,” I answered. “I don’t seem to care what happens.” Folkestone Pier was a black mass of people looking out to sea as we came in, and a surging crowd came towards us, as Dorothy and I landed, while our boat, with Tom in the stern, shot back towards the yacht. Had it not been for three or four policemen, we could not have forced our way through the jam, but by their aid we managed to struggle through, shaking our heads in response to the thousand questions. As the human tide ebbed back towards the end of the pier, I heard my name and turned. It was Maxwell, our London correspondent. “What news?” he asked eagerly, when he reached me. “I’ll tell you, if you’ll get us out of this crowd,” I answered. “I’ve got a motor here. Come on,” he said, and we made our way out, boarded the motor and started slowly off. I looked at the chauffeur. “Run out to a quiet place where we can be alone, will you?” I said to Maxwell. In a few moments we had cleared the town, and were on the bluff above the sea. There was no one around. “This will do,” I said. As we descended, Maxwell looked questioningly at Dorothy. “This is my fiancée, Miss Haldane,” I explained. “I forgot to introduce you. She knows the whole story.” Just where we paused, an iron seat faced the wide expanse of blue and shining water, and for a moment I gazed out over the Channel and breathed a silent prayer of thanksgiving for my escape, of remembrance for the men who lay beneath that flood. Then I turned, and began my story. Ere I had spoken a dozen words, Maxwell had his note book out, writing rapidly. Throughout, he wrote without a question, without a word. As I ended, he closed his note book slowly.