“Ah, but you see, Mother, he hasn’t—­”

“Hasn’t what—­Fifteen two, fifteen four—­Well, Kate?”

“Has never been quite so late home on his last night of leave, has he, Mother?”

“That is true—­one for his nob.  I really think they ought to make him a captain, for he seems to be an exceedingly useful officer.  He went away last Thursday, as I understood, on some business connected with a wreck.  I do hope none of the poor men were drowned.  I often think of my husband, Mr. Barracombe, on the other side of the world, going about among those dreadful coral reefs, and I wish he would retire and live safely at home.  I could never understand what he finds interesting in bits of stone and things of that sort, but of course he is a very distinguished man.”

So the good lady prattled on, placidly unconscious of her nearness to the border-line between comedy and tragedy.

The clock struck eleven.

“Thank you, Mr. Barracombe; I have enjoyed the game,” said Mrs. Smith.  “Charley will soon be here.”

“Let us go to the door,” said Kate.  “Perhaps we shall hear him.”

“Mr. Barracombe will go with you, Kate; I am a little afraid of the night air.  Wrap yourself up.”

The two went to the conservatory door, overlooking the park.  The sky was clear, the air was still; not a sound was to be heard.  Every now and then a broad flash of light fleetingly illuminated the sky; it was no doubt the searchlight at Spithead.

“I wish he would come,” said Kate.  “It would be terrible if anything went wrong at the very last.  How far is it across the Atlantic?”

“It’s three thousand five hundred miles to Liverpool from New York, and rather more from Toronto; a ticklish journey, with no chance of landing till he gets to Ireland.”

“It makes me shudder to think of him crossing the sea in that frail machine.”

“People shuddered at the first railway train, speed ten miles an hour; now we grumble at fifty.  In a few years we shall have an aerial Marathon, with the circumference of the globe for the course.”

“Hark!  What is that?”

“The rumble of a train,” said Barracombe, after a moment’s silence.  “Shall we walk down to the sheds?  There’s a clear view from there, without trees; we could see the aeroplane a long way off, though probably we should hear it first.”

They went on, remained at the sheds for some minutes, scanning the sky, then retraced their steps.  A quarter-past eleven struck.  Kate grew more and more anxious, and Barracombe found it more and more difficult to talk unconcernedly.  They returned to the house, and entering through the conservatory, discovered Mrs. Smith asleep in her chair.  Barracombe noiselessly put some coal on the fire, and they stole out again.

Half-past eleven.

“Don’t you think you had better go to bed, Kate?”

“I couldn’t sleep if I did, Billy.  I couldn’t even lie still.  Oh, how helpless one feels!  Charley may be drowning, and we don’t know it, and can’t do anything to help.”