CHAPTER SEVEN“Do you realise it’s our last day and that tomorrow we shall not be here?” Jack asked.
“Don’t count your chickens,” Fleur admonished him, looking round the tiny cell that had housed him for nearly four months. “There is a lot of ifs about it.
“If the weather is fine, if Henri is quite certain that the motor is going perfectly, if he can get us down to the boat and last but rather important, if we can get away undetected.”
“Don’t be so gloomy,” Jack retorted and, getting up from the table, he went and stood by the open ventilator. “If it’s a day like this, we could not ask for anything better.”
There was a thin sea-mist outside and the light in the cellar was dim.
“Are you excited?” Jack went on.
He lit a cigarette and sitting down on his bed, put up his feet.
“I ought
