He understood. They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne. He jumped back, cursing. It would have given me intense satisfaction to have been able to catch a French spy. It was she! The Dawn Pearl! He vaulted the veranda rail, careless now whether or not he was heard, and ran down to the beach. He was a tall man and fair, with bluish eyes that were rather protuberant, and long white hands of which he made a display.
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