"The wind's shifting, sir," said the sailing-master. "I'm afraid we
shan't get round the point this tide, unless we lay her off on the other
tack."

Turlington shook his head.

"There are letters waiting for me at Bideford," he said. "We have lost
two days in the calm. I must send ashore to the post-office, whether we
lose the tide or not."

The vessel held on her course. Off the port of Bideford, the boat was
sent ashore to the post-office, the yacht standing off and on, waiting
the appearance of the letters. In the shortest time in which it was
possible to bring them on board the letters were in Turlington's hands.

The men were hauling the boat up to the davits, the yacht was already
heading off from the land, when Turlington startled everybody by one
peremptory word--"Stop!"

He had thrust all his letters but one into the pocket of his sailing
jacket, without reading them. The one letter which he had opened he held
in his closed hand. Rage was in his staring eyes, consternation was on
his pale lips.

"Lower the boat!" he shouted; "I must get to London to-night." He
stopped Sir Joseph, approaching him with opened mouth. "There's no time
for questions and answers. I must get back." He swung himself over the
side of the yacht, and addressed the sailing-master from the boat. "Save
the tide if you can; if you can't, put them ashore to-morrow at Minehead