Chance

I have said that the story of Flora de Barral was imparted to me in

stages. At this stage I did not see Marlow for some time. At last, one

evening rather early, very soon after dinner, he turned up in my rooms.

I had been waiting for his call primed with a remark which had not

occurred to me till after he had gone away.

"I say," I tackled him at once, "how can you be certain that Flora de

Barral ever went to sea? After all, the wife of the captain of the

Ferndale--" the lady that mustn't be disturbed "of the old

ship-keeper--may not have been Flora."

"Well, I do know," he said, "if only because I have been keeping in touch

with Mr. Powell."

"You have!" I cried. "This is the first I hear of it. And since when?"

"Why, since the first day. You went up to town leaving me in the inn. I

slept ashore. In the morning Mr. Powell came in for breakfast; and after

the first awkwardness of meeting a man you have been yarning with over-

night had worn off, we discovered a liking for each other."

As I had discovered the fact of their mutual liking before either of

them, I was not surprised.

"And so you kept in touch," I said.

"It was not so very difficult. As he was always knocking about the river

I hired Dingle's sloop-rigged three-tonner to be more on an equality.

Powell was friendly but elusive. I don't think he ever wanted to avoid

me. But it is a fact that he used to disappear out of the river in a

very mysterious manner sometimes. A man may land anywhere and bolt

inland--but what about his five-ton cutter? You can't carry that in your

hand like a suit-case.

"Then as suddenly he would reappear in the river, after one had given him

up. I did not like to be beaten. That's why I hired Dingle's decked

boat. There was just the accommodation in her to sleep a man and a dog.

But I had no dog-friend to invite. Fyne's dog who saved Flora de

Barral's life is the last dog-friend I had. I was rather lonely cruising

about; but that, too, on the river has its charm, sometimes. I chased

the mystery of the vanishing Powell dreamily, looking about me at the

ships, thinking of the girl Flora, of life's chances--and, do you know,

it was very simple."

"What was very simple?" I asked innocently.