'Settle the terms later,' called a young sailor. 'I would bargain for a kiss.' 'I will get them,' said Jack. 'And I shall hold you to your promise,' returned Winefred, and left the room and the tavern. A moment later Jack went out, and, walking quickly, overtook her. 'I will see you to the ferry,' he said quietly. 'I can find the way by myself,' was her reply. They paced side by side in silence. Presently she said: 'Remember, I hold you to your undertaking, unless what you offered were mere idle brag. Have you come after me to beg off?' 'I have not. You shall have the choughs.' 'And you shall have the guinea.' 'I will not touch it. All I ask, if I bring you the pair, is that you will think of me with less bitterness.' Again a pause ensued. The chill of the evening, the heavy vapour clogged their tongues. Presently, feeling the irksomeness, she said, 'When will you go after them――unless your heart fails?' 'My heart will not fail. I will try to-morrow at sunrise.' Again she was silent. Their steps in the wet mud was like the sound of children eating. After a while she said hesitatingly, 'I do not yet believe that you will venture. If you do, I am not responsible for your safety.' 'I risk it of my own free choice.' In the dense mist and gathering darkness sat Olver. With his oar and a boat-hook he had been working for some time at the loose pile that sustained the landing-stage, and he had succeeded in making it doubly insecure. The planks were greasy. He put the blade of his oar against the footway and with the pressure it declined. Then he sat motionless. Suddenly he lifted his head and listened. He thought that he heard steps. He was not mistaken. The pebbles sounded under the tread of feet. He stood up, and balanced himself in the boat on his oar, and drew his brows together and set his teeth. He peered into the fog, but saw no one. But――was that the sound of one pair of feet that approached? Then he uttered an angry, disappointed growl. He had distinguished voices. Next moment from out the envelope of vapour emerged Winefred and Jack Rattenbury. 'Take my hand,' said the latter. 'The wood is slippery.' 'I can steady myself, unassisted,' answered the girl; and she went forward on the plank. Then it yielded; she uttered an exclamation and caught Jack's hand. 'But for this,' said he, 'you would have been soused in the tide.' 'Then Dench would have drawn me out. I have been in no real danger,' was her ungracious reply; and, without a parting salutation, she stepped into the boat. Jack remained on the insecure stage. 'Will you not say "Good-night"? he asked. She was silent. Presently relenting, she said, 'I will call "Good-night" from the further side, when safe over the water.' He waited. Presently, muffled by the fog, from the further shore, 'Good-night!' Then, only, did Jack turn and retire. CHAPTER XLI THE WHITE CLIFF