Satisfied with his inspection, Brett gave a little nod of approval. His
manservant, Achille Dupont, who accompanied him wherever he went, had all
a Frenchman's quick grasp of a situation, he reflected. Moreover, the man
possessed the invaluable faculty of getting on well with the members of the
yacht's company, so that his coming on board with his master and waiting on
him exclusively failed to create any resentment. In addition to this, he
was dowered with the golden gift of discretion. Achille never suffered from
a misplaced curiosity concerning his master's doings. He accepted them
blandly, and although Brett supposed there would be a certain amount of
gossip on board the yacht concerning this night's doings, he felt serenely
sure that Achille himself would preserve a strict reticence concerning
anything that he might chance to observe or overhear in the performance of
his duty of serving the supper.
The clock had struck nine some few minutes ago, and Brett pictured the
dinghy slipping over the smooth water with Ann, hooded and cloaked, sitting
in the stern. He could almost visualise her young, tense-lipped face with
its courageous eyes gazing ahead into the darkness.
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