the sky and, farther still, beneath the motionless cloud, grey as a great sheet of slate.
But, above Brighton, the sun, already dipping towards the downs, shone through the clouds; and a luminous trail of gold-dust appeared upon the sea.
“La perfide!’’ murmured Simon Dubosc. He understood English perfectly, but always spoke French with his friend. ‘‘The perfidious brute: how beautiful she is, how attractive! Would you ever have thought her capable of these malevolent whims, which are so destructive and murderous? Are you crossing to-night, Rolleston?’’
‘“Yes, Newhaven to Dieppe.’’
‘‘You'll be quite safe,’’ said Simon. ‘‘The sea has had her two wrecks; she’s sated. But why are you in such a hurry to go?”
‘‘I have to interview a crew at Dieppe to-morrow morning; I am putting my yacht in commission. Then, in the afternoon, to Paris, I expect; and, in a week’s time, a cruise to Norway. And you, Simon?’’
Simon Dubose did not reply. He had turned toward the club-house, whose windows, in their borders of Virginia creeper and honeysuckle, were blazing with the sun. The players had left the
