CHAPTER XXII 

THE REFUGEE'S RETURN 

Sabatini's attitude of indolence lasted only until they had turned from the waterway into the main river. Then he sat up and pointed a little way down the stream. 

"Can you cross over somewhere there?" he asked. 

Arnold nodded and punted across towards the opposite bank. 

"Get in among the rushes," Sabatini directed. "Now listen to me." 

Arnold came and sat down. 

"You don't mean to tire me," he remarked. 

Sabatini smiled. 

"Do you seriously think that I asked you to bring me on the river for the pleasure of watching your prowess with that pole, my friend?" he asked. "Not at all. I am going to ask you to do me a service." 

Arnold was suddenly conscious that Sabatini, for the first time since he had known him, was in earnest. The lines of his marble-white face seemed to have grown tenser and firmer, his manner was the manner of a man who meets a crisis. 

"Turn your head and look inland," he said. "You follow the lane there?" 

Arnold nodded. 

"Quite well," he admitted. 

"At the corner," Sabatini continued, "just out of sight behind that tall hedge, is my motor car. I want you to land and make your way there. My chauffeur has his instructions. He will take you to a village some eight miles up the river, a village called Heslop Wood. There is a boat-builder's yard at the end of the main street. You will hire a boat and row up the river. About three hundred yards up, on the left hand side, is an old, dismantled-looking house-boat. I want you to board it and search it thoroughly." 
What was his destination?
dismantled-looking house-boat