with the match apparently had no more, judging by his execrations.
Dickson stood stock still, longing for the wind to fall so that he
might hear the sound of the fellow's boots on the stone floor.
He gathered that they were moving towards the smoking-room.

"Heritage," he whispered as loud as he dared, bet there was no answer.

Then suddenly a moving body collided with him. He jumped a step back
and then stood at attention. "Is that you, Dobson?" a voice asked.

Now behold the occasional advantage of a nick-name. Dickson thought
he was being addressed as "Dogson" after the Poet's fashion. Had he
dreamed it was Leon he would not have replied, but fluttered off
into the shadows, and so missed a piece of vital news.

"Ay, it's me." he whispered.

His voice and accent were Scotch, like Dobson's, and Leon
suspected nothing.

"I do not like this wind," he grumbled. "The Captain's letter said
at dawn, but there is no chance of the Danish brig making your little
harbour in this weather. She must lie off and land the men by boats.
That I do not like. It is too public."

The news--tremendous news, for it told that the new-comers would come
by sea, which had never before entered Dickson's head--so interested
him that he stood dumb and ruminating. The silence made the Belgian
suspect; he put out a hand and felt a waterproofed arm which might
have been Dobson's. But the height of the shoulder proved that it was