Towards three o'clock on the following afternoon, the boisterous wind of an uncertain morning settled down to worse things.

It tore the spray from the crest of the gathering waves, dashed it even against the French windows of Mainsail Haul, and came booming down the open spaces cliffwards, like the rumble of some subterranean artillery.

A little group of fishermen in oilskins leaned over the railing and discussed the chances of Ben Oates bringing his boat in safely.

Philippa, also, distracted by a curious anxiety, stood before the blurred window, gazing into what seemed almost a grey chaos.

"Captain Griffiths, your ladyship." She turned around quickly at the announcement.