To have had the others returned was useless whilst these two were out of her hands and in the power of someone unknown. She felt anxious to get to England, though what to do when she should be there in this matter she could not tell: tell the truth for once, perhaps--that last refuge of the desperate--in an appeal to Katherine Massarene’s mercy. When she went on board the Bassenthwaite boat--a fine vessel which had gone all round the world--Sir Henry met her cheerfully; he had preceded the party by two hours. “Here’s a pleasant surprise, Duchess,” he cried. “Your brother’s yacht’s in the roads; she was signalled this morning.” “The _Dianthus_?” she asked, startled and dismayed. “The _Dianthus_--yes,” he replied. “You will have some message, no doubt, soon. It is a surprise, eh?” “A very great surprise,” she answered. “I thought Hurstmanceaux was in the Irish Channel.” Bassenthwaite was astonished at her evident vexation. Under the plea of fatigue she went to her cabin. She was alarmed beyond expression. That intuition which does duty for wisdom in many women told her that her brother had the missing signatures--that it was on their account that he had come into the North seas. William Massarene was dead: would the ghost from his grave never cease from pursuing her? She felt chilly and ill-used. It was dinner-time: she was obliged to laugh and talk and look her best; the German Emperor’s yacht was in the harbor; there were fireworks, illumination of the shipping, bands played; the Bassenthwaite schooner was a blaze of light and fire; there was dancing on deck; the Kaiser came on board and was very pleasant. She had to appear to enjoy it all, while her heart grew sick as she gazed past the lights outward to the darkness of the offing to where they said that the _Dianthus_ was riding at anchor. Early next morning they announced to her that a message had come for her: one of her brother’s men had brought a note. It was extremely brief, and requested her to come to him by the boat he sent. She wrote in answer: “The Bassenthwaites hope you will come and lunch. We weigh anchor at three o’clock. I cannot come to you.” When Hurstmanceaux received this answer by his sailor’s hands, he was pacing his deck in great anger to see his boat returning without her. He did not know the Bassenthwaites; he did not wish to know them; and at this moment of all others he could not have endured to meet her before strangers. He wrote again: “I desire you to come in my boat. I am here only to see you. I have your signature and Beaumont’s”--and sent his sailors back to Bassenthwaite’s schooner. It was no more than she had expected, but she felt as if all the ice of the Pole were drifting down and closing on her when she saw his men returning. She dare not disobey the summons. She went in the boat from the _Dianthus_. “I wonder what she’ll hear when she gets there,” said Bassenthwaite to his wife.