"Yes," Hilliard resumed as he lit a cigar, "I have had quite an
INTERESTING time. You shall hear. I got hold of Maxwell of the
telephones, who is a yachtsman, and who was going to Spain on
holidays. Well, the boat was laid up at Southampton, and we got
down about midday on Monday week. We spent that day overhauling
her and getting in stores, and on Tuesday we ran down Channel,
putting into Dartmouth for the night and to fill with petrol. Next
day was our big day - across to Brest, something like 170 miles,
mostly open sea, and with Ushant at the end of it - a beastly place,
generally foggy and always with bad currents. We intended to wait
in the Dart for good weather, and we wired the Meteorological Office
for forecasts. It happened that on Tuesday night there was a
first-rate forecast, so on Wednesday we decided to risk it. We
slipped out past the old castle at Dartmouth at 5 a.m., had a
topping run, and were in Brest at seven that evening. There we
filled up again, and next day, Thursday, we made St. Nazaire, at
the mouth of the Loire. We had intended to make a long day of it
on Friday and come fight here, but as I told you it came on to
blow a bit off the Coubre, and we could only make the mouth of the
river. We put into a little place called Le Verdon, just inside
the Pointe de Grave - that's the end of that fork of land on the
southern side of the Gironde estuary. On Saturday we got here
about midday, hunted around, found that old wharf and moored.
Maxwell went on the same evening to Spain."

Hilliard paused, while Merriman congratulated him on his journey.

"Yes, we hadn't bad luck," he resumed. "But that really wasn't what
I wanted to tell you about. I had brought a fishing rod and outfit,
and on Sunday I took a car and drove out along the Bayonne Road