u know he's crocked up and won't be out of bed for a
month. My proposal is that you come in his place, and that instead of
crossing France in the orthodox way by the Seine, we try to work through
from Bordeaux by the Garonne. I don't know if we can do it, but it would
be rather fun trying. But anyway the point would be that we should pay
a call at your sawmill on the way, and see if we can learn anything more
about the lorry numbers. What do you say?"

"Sounds jolly fascinating." Merriman had quite recovered his good humor.
"But I'm not a yachtsman. I know nothing about the business."

"Pooh! What do you want to know? We're not sailing, and motoring through
these rivers and canals is great sport. And then we can go on to Monte
and any of those places you like. I've done it before and had no end of
a good time. What do you say? Are you on?"

"It's jolly decent of you, I'm sure, Hilliard. If you think you can put
up with a hopeless landlubber, I'm certainly on."

Merriman was surprised to find how much he was thrilled by the proposal.
He enjoyed boating, though only very mildly, and it was certainly not
the prospect of endless journeyings along the canals and rivers of
France that attracted him. Still less was it the sea, of which he hated
the motion. Nor was it the question of the lorry numbers. He was puzzled
and interested in the affair, and he would like to know the solution,
but his curiosity was not desperately keen, and he did not feel like
taking a great deal of trouble to satisfy it. At all events he was not
going to do any spying, if that was what Hilliard wanted, for he did
not for a moment accept that smuggling theory. But when they were in
the neighborhood he supposed it would be permissible to call and see
the Coburns. Miss Coburn had seemed lonely. It would be decent to try to
cheer her up. They might invite her on board, and have tea and perhaps
a run up the river. He seemed to visualize the launch moving easily
between the tree-clad banks, Hilliard attending to the engine and
steering, he and the brown-eyed girl in the taffrail, or the cockpit,
or the well, or whatever you sat in on a motor boat. He pictured a
gloriously sunny afternoon, warm and delightful, with just enough air
made by the movement to prevent it being too hot. It would...

Hilliard's voice broke in on his thoughts, and he realized his friend
had been speaking for some time.

"She's over-engined, if anything," he was saying, "but tha