Peter failed to keep his promise about returning to the yacht at ten
o'clock. In fact, it was four o'clock that afternoon when he arrived,
and at that, the manner in which he sprang up the stair indicated him as
a man who had but few moments to spare to yachts and that sort of thing.

Varney, at his ease upon the transom, watched his friend's approach with
a quizzical eye.

"Greetings, old comrade! How did you leave them all in Hunston?"

Peter, who, truth to tell, had been looking forward to bitter personal
denunciation, looked somewhat relieved, and laughed. However, his manner
suggested little of hang-dog consciousness of guilt; it was far too
absorbed and business-like for that. He dropped down into a chair by
Varney and swabbed the back of his neck with a damp-looking
handkerchief.

"Larry, who'd have dreamed last night that we were parting for all this
time?"

"Well, not I for one."

"Awfully sorry about it all, and I know you'll think I'm acting like a
funny kind of helper. I hadn't the faintest idea of bottling you up on
the yacht all day like this, but--well, you might say, Larry, that a man
couldn't help it to save his life. I certainly meant to be back by the
time you had finished breakfast and explain the whole situation to
you--there are a deuced lot of complications, you know--but one thing
led right on to another and--good Lord! I couldn't find a minute with a
fine-tooth comb."