ited islets of ravishing
beauty. Gentlemen in Athens, in a hurry to reach Constantinople, took
aeroplanes; but there was another way, across the AEgean Sea, in small
sailing ships which were frequently blown out of their course at night
and would take refuge in Kaloni, whence it was easy to reach the
mainland of Asia Minor. And this business--for it was a business--was so
profitable, and the ships of war so few in proportion to the area, that
it went on gaily enough "under our noses" as one person said in disgust.
Not quite that; but the problem did not grow any simpler when there was
yet another neutral government--with ships--at Saloniki, a government
that might be almost hysterically sympathetic to the cause of freedom
and justice but which might also be imposed upon by conscienceless and
unscrupulous merchants already in collusion with other unscrupulous
people in Constantinople. This was the situation when the _Kalkis_
turned the great headland of Karaburun and headed south-southeast on the
journey from which she never returned. Captain Rannie, staring at the
chart on which he had pencilled the greater part of her course,
southeast from Cape Kassandra, bearing away from the great three-pronged
extremity of the Chalcidice peninsula, was aware that she would not
return, but he found himself flinching from the inevitable moment,
drawing nearer and nearer when he must face success or failure. When he
asked himself, echoing Mr. Dainopoulos, could he do it? He was not sure
that he could.

From this reverie he was roused by Mr. Spokesly appearing on the bridge.
For a moment he was almost betrayed into a feeling of relief at the
approach of a companion. He opened his mouth to speak and Mr. Spokesly,
standing by the door, stopped to listen. But nothing came. Captain
Rannie knew the secret power of always letting the other man do the
talking on a ship. He said nothing. He crushed down the sudden craving
to confide in Mr. Spokesly. He wanted--just for a moment--to call him
in, shut the door, and whisper, with his hand on Mr. Spokesly's
shoulder, "My boy, we are not going to Phyros at all. We are going
to...."

No, he stopped in time. Why, he might stop the engines, blow the
whistle, run the ship ashore! He stepped out beside Mr. Spokesly who was
looking down at the compass, and wrote some figures on the slate that
hung in view of the helmsman.

"That's the course."

"All right, sir."

"Call me at midnight if necessary.