ON BOARD THE ALEXANDRA
Under the awning on the after deck of the _Alexandra_, Pen was
reclining in a luxurious basket chair with her feet crossed on a rest
in front of her. Her brow was clear, her lips smiling. To have seen
her then, one would never have guessed that she had anything more on
her mind than the deliciousness of luxury which she was experiencing
for the first time in her life. As a matter of fact being a human,
pretty girl she took to it like a cat to cream, but just the same there
was a lot hidden behind her seeming open smile. She knew that she
looked all right. Poor as they were, in Aunt Maria Pen possessed a
laundress, one of a fast-disappearing race, and there was a bloom upon
her simple gingham dress that matched the flower-like freshness of
herself. It was mid-morning but Pen's undone chores troubled her not a
bit.
The _Alexandra_ had been lying inside Broome's Point for two days. On
the first day Riever had lunched with the Broomes; yesterday he had
returned their hospitality. Of the two Pen's food was undoubtedly
better, being fresher than the millionaire's, but she had tasted with
delight all the expensive things she had read about which never came to
Southern Maryland: Caviare, _petite marmite_, _paté de fois gras_,
hothouse grapes, marrons, etc. This morning Riever had insisted on
having the Broomes to breakfast on the yacht.
A few feet from Pen the owner of it all was sitting on the wide divan
that encircled the stern rail. Pendleton Broome sat beside him, and on
the deck between the two men stood a little table bearing coffee cups
and a box of such cigars as the elder man had never whiffed before even
in dreams. Pendleton was holding forth to Riever in his usual style,
while the millionaire listening politely, glanced at Pen out of the
corners of his eyes.
The coming of Riever had changed the situation not a little. Riever
moved like an unacknowledged monarch. The tale of his wealth compelled
men's homage. In his presence all voices were prone to become silky
and backs to bend. Riever like many another monarch despised this
homage while he insisted on it. His more intimate creatures therefore
were careful to cultivate an offhand, man-to-man air towards their
master while they utterly subordinated their souls to his. This just
suited him.
Well, Riever being what he was, he had only to drop a suggestion to
Delehanty the chief detective to have all surveillance removed from
over Pen's actions. She was now free to come and go as she chose. Of
course nothing further had been said of the proposed warrant for her
arrest. Delehanty had become as obsequious towards her as he had
previously been arrogant.
A curious relation existed between Pen and the millionaire. From the
first he had been most courteous, but in the beginning it had been
dictated merely by motives of policy. He could see a little further
than the clumsy Delehanty, that was all. Pen recognized in him an
adversary infinitely more dangerous. But he had changed. The second
time she saw him she became aware that she had a power over him. In
short he was powerfully attracted. Pen marveled at it. _Riever_, who
presumably had only to pick and choose from among the beauties of the
world! But though she could not understand how it had come about, she
rejoiced in her power, and had no scruples whatever against using it.
To anyone else beside Pen the explanation would have been obvious
enough. It is all very well to buy yourself royally through a world of
salable women, but it lays you open to a dangerous weakness. When you
meet a woman who is obviously not for sale, you are apt to fall down
before her most ignominiously. That was what had happened to Riever.
Just because he was so rich Pen had instinctively adopted an
independent air towards him that piqued him intolerably. _Really_
independent. Then there was that highly individual charm of hers. And
her independence was not indifference. With all his experience Riever
had never met a woman like Pen. Or perhaps it would be more correct to
say that a woman of Pen's spirit and transparent honesty had never
before taken an interest in the ugly little man.
When she was with Riever it need hardly be said that Pen was not nearly
so honest as she seemed. In fact she concealed herself behind her
apparent frankness. That is the great advantage of having a naturally
honest look. It enables you to lie so well when you have a real need
of lying. Since Riever had arrived the two had been almost constantly
together, and a sort of subtle duel going on between them. Pen's
object was to encourage him without giving of herself. He was the
first man she had ever set out to encourage. It was a sufficiently
intoxicating experience for the man. Pen's blandishments were very
different from the sort that Riever had been accustomed to.
As for Pen's father he had swallowed the lure of luxury, hook, bait and
sinker. At this moment buttoned up to the neck in his old Prince
Albert he seemed to be perspiring satisfaction. He had come into the
sort of life that he regarded as his own. To see him stretch his arm
over the stern rail and flick the ash off the expensive cigar with his
little finger was a treat. Pendleton Broome was the sort of man who
will always be flattered because he asked for it so plainly. It was
Riever's cue to encourage him to the utmost. After his first meeting
with the millionaire Pendleton had said to Pen:
"I find I have not rusted out in my solitude. I can still keep my end
up with men of the world. Riever listens to me with the most
respectful attention."
Pen had smiled to herself without answering.
More had passed between the two men than Pen was as yet aware of. She
knew that Riever had promised to look into the matter of the Broome's
Point railway, thus raising her father's hopes to the skies, but she
did not know that Riever had actually purchased half a dozen lots
adjacent to the proposed terminal and that the inside pocket of the old
Prince Albert was at this moment crackling with greenbacks.
Pendleton was saying self-importantly: "The original grade of the
railway issues from the gully yonder. The plan was to build a long
dock straight out to deep water. But there's a shoal off the gully.
My plan would be to have the tracks turn along the shore to a point
below the house where they could build all the docks they wanted right
into deep water."
Riever gave him only as much attention as was needed to keep him going.
"But that would ruin the outlook from your house," he suggested idly.
"Oh, I shall not remain here after the railway comes," said Pendleton
loftily. "I'd take an apartment in New York, and perhaps a house in
Newport."
"Newport is not what it was," remarked Riever.
"Ah, the vulgar have taken possession I suppose," said Pendleton. "My
father had a place there. My childish recollections of it are most
pleasant."
"People are scattered all over the map nowadays," said Riever.
"That I presume is due to the introduction of the automobile," said
Pendleton. He launched into a discussion of automobiles of which he
knew nothing.
Riever listening gravely, sent a quizzical glance in Pen's direction.
But Pen was not to be tempted into making common cause with him against
her father. She looked blandly ahead of her.
Pendleton himself delivered them from boredom. He had observed
Riever's interest in his daughter and was not without his hopes in that
direction too. By and by he rose saying with a self-conscious air:
"... Er ... I have some important letters to get off this afternoon.
If you'd be good enough to put me ashore, Riever. You needn't hurry,
daughter."
Under other circumstances Pen would have been deeply affronted by his
transparent ruse. But as has been said, in this affair she had no
conscience. She allowed it to be seen that she had no intention of
moving.
Riever made haste to summon the boat. Pendleton went down the ladder
in his absurd three seasons' straw hat, bobbing his head and waving his
hand airily. Towards the sailors his air of mingled condescension and
goodfellowship was delicious.
Pen glanced at Riever through her lashes as he returned to her. The
little man held himself stiffly in his blue yachting togs and walked
with a suggestion of a strut. The greatest tailor in the world could
not endow his meager frame with beauty or grace, but it was not to be
denied that his wonderfully made clothes lent him a certain distinction.
He patted the cushions of that wonderful divan that encircled the
stern. "Wouldn't you be more comfortable here?"
"Impossible!" drawled Pen.
"A cigarette?"
"Never learned how," she said. "I'll make my first trials in private."
"I'll send you a box."
He sat down and feasted his eyes on her openly.
He was no beauty. His face was a little reddened and roughened with
incipient erysipelas. Don had said that he and Riever were of the same
age, but the millionaire might have been of any age between twenty-five
and forty-five; there was no look of youth about him. He was redeemed
from insignificance by his assured habit of command. Yet his assurance
did not go very deep. Pen had discovered that he might quite easily be
put out of countenance, only nobody ever tried it. When he chose as at
present, he could be most agreeable, but there was always a pained roll
to his eyes, such as may be seen in the eyes of a bad-tempered horse, a
look that boded no good to his underlings.
A curious thing was that in their endless conversations Don Counsell
was never referred to but in the most casual manner. Each had a secret
to guard here. Pen kept her secret better than the man did. Riever
wished it to be supposed that he had just happened in at Broome's Point
on his yacht. That his coming at this time had only the slightest
connection with the pursuit of Don Counsell, Pen knew better of course.
On every hand she gathered evidence that Riever was the head and front
of the pursuit. Riever was the secret source of the hideous clamor
raised against the man Pen knew to be innocent. Twenty times a day
Riever gave himself away to her love-sharpened eyes--but it was not
evidence!
Meanwhile they fenced with each other.
"You should not encourage Dad in his delusions," said Pen.
"You mean about the railway?" said Riever. "I could put it through
with a nod of my head if I chose."
"But you won't," she said.
"How do you know I won't?"
"You are so clearly only humoring him."
"Good Heavens!" he said in mock dismay. "Do you undertake to read men?"
"I don't undertake it," said Pen. "You can't help seeing what you see."
"I could put it through," he said again, "if there was sufficient
incentive."
"Of course," said Pen. And let the matter drop.
He was trying to make her beg for the railway. What most fascinated
and provoked him in her was his inability to make her ask him for
anything, or take anything from him. Everybody else in the world asked
him for things one way or another.
He presently went on: "That's the trouble with life to a man like me: I
have no particular incentive to do anything."
Pen refused to recognize his money. "Why haven't you the same
incentive as other men?" she demanded to know.
"What are men's principal incentives?" he parried.
"Well, love, ambition, the desire to excel other men, I suppose."
"Yes, one could go far for love," he said with a sidelong look.
Pen without looking at him was aware of the look. She thought: "Men
are funny! He's trying to make me philander with him in a crude way,
and if I did he'd weary of me immediately!"
It was Riever's desire to shine in her eyes that frequently betrayed
him. She was not impressed by his wealth; very well, he had to find
some way of making himself out a remarkable figure. He presently said
with a casual air:
"How about hate as an incentive?"
Pen pricked up her ears. She answered as casually as he: "I always
thought of hate as destroying a man instead of nerving him to do
things."
"Not at all," he said. "Hate will carry a man as far as love--or
farther." His feelings got the better of him. He forgot his casual
air. "There's more in hate than love!" he went on with glittering
eyes. "Men get tired of loving, but never of hating. There's more
pleasure in hate because you never can entirely possess your lover, but
you can destroy your enemy! ... Do I horrify you?" he asked with a
sudden harsh laugh.
"Not in the least," said Pen coolly. "Nothing of that sort horrifies
me, though I might have to make believe to be horrified."
"Not with me," he said, showing his yellow teeth.
"It is comfortable not to have to make pretenses," Pen said. That was
as near as she could come to philandering.
"I believe you'd make a good hater," he hazarded.
"Maybe," said Pen. "I've never had the experience like you."
An instinct of caution occurred to him. "Oh, you mustn't take me too
literally," he said laughing. "I haven't anybody to hate at present.
But I have the capacity."
It was too late. His glittering eyes had reminded Pen of Don's phrase:
a poisonous look. It was precious evidence to her heart, but
unfortunately not the sort of evidence she could take into court.
She was reluctant to drop the subject of hatred. "The Borgias were
good haters," she hazarded. "I lately read a story which told how
Alexander Borgia caused a bed to be made for his enemies. It was so
arranged that when a body warmed it it killed like a hammer-stroke."
"A fanciful tale," said Riever. "All the killing poisons I ever heard
of have to be introduced into the stomach, the blood or the lungs."
He spoke as one who knows, and Pen, wondering, pursued the subject with
further questions. It was like tapping a hidden spring in the man.
With a curious relish he described the action of various poisons on the
human system.
"Cyanide is the neatest," he said. "There's your hammer-stroke."
Pen thought: "Has he tried that too? ... Collis Dongan was shot!"
She betrayed nothing in her face, but Riever suddenly, with an uneasy
glance, was impelled to explain how he came by so much knowledge. "You
see my hobby is raising fruit," he said. "My peaches have scores of
enemies; suckers, chewers, fungi and bacilli. I have to study to keep
ahead of them."
But he had been talking of the human system!
She couldn't appear to pin him down of course. She had to let him
range where he would, contenting herself with giving the talk a little
push this way or that when the opportunity offered. She encouraged him
to talk of his childhood and youth, to which he was nothing loath. He
unconsciously drew her a picture of a willful, jealous, destructive
boy, a little monument of selfishness. There was a bad crack in his
nature. He hated beauty, moral and physical, but particularly physical
beauty. Pen marked the pained sneer with which his eyes followed the
stalwart young steward who carried away the cups. Riever had to have
handsome servants to maintain his position, but their comeliness was a
perpetual reproach to him. No wonder he had hated Don Counsell from
the first, Pen thought. She guessed darkly that Riever was the kind
that pursues beautiful women only to hurt them.
He had been telling her with a laugh of the torments to which new boys
were subjected in the fashionable school he had attended. One poor
little wretch it appeared had been driven by his persecutors to the
point of attempting suicide.
"Weren't you sorry then?" asked Pen.
"No!" he said. "I had to go through the mill when I came. It wasn't
my fault that this kid had a soft streak in him. Besides conscience is
only another name for weak-mindedness. I made up my mind early that
I'd never be sorry for anything I did. A strong man laughs at
conscience."
Pen thought: "Funny kind of strength!"
This was all very well but what good did it do her? They might talk
for a month of mornings without her getting any further. And she had
not a day to spare. How was she to get facts? The obvious thing would
be to bribe his servants, to have his effects searched and so on. This
was impossible for Pen. She was ready to despair of ever bridging the
chasm between surmise and fact.
The motor-boat which had taken Pendleton ashore, had proceeded on to
the Island for the mail. It was now to be seen returning. This was
Riever's own private mail service. On the day of his coming, deciding
that the regular mail was too slow, he had instituted a double
automobile service between Absolom's Island and Baltimore. Twice a day
by this means he received his letters and the New York papers,
particularly the papers. Pen had already marked with what a curious
eagerness he awaited the New York papers.
When the mail-bag was brought to him now he said after a momentary
hesitation:
"Put it in the saloon."
Pen noted the eager roll of his eyes towards the bag. There was
something in there that he desired to see even more than he wished to
cultivate her company. With the idea of seeing the thing through, she
said carelessly:
"May I see a New York paper?"
"Certainly," he said, and had the bag brought back. It was emptied out
on the seat beside him. He handed Pen a paper.
She opened it and feigned to read. At first he made believe to ignore
the balance of the contents of the bag, and sat there as if awaiting
her pleasure. But he was uneasy. His feet moved; his hands twitched.
Finally as Pen showed no signs of losing interest in her sheet, he
picked up another paper and opened it with hands that trembled a little.
Pen found that she could not watch him from where she sat. He held his
paper up between them. She lowered hers and rose. He was all
attention.
"This hasn't got what I want?" she said. "May I see another?"
Without waiting for him to hand it to her she picked up another paper
and seated herself on the divan with only the mail matter between them.
From this point of vantage she could watch him very well without
appearing to.
He glanced over his sheet and she over hers. "Glancing," however, does
not convey the strained intentness with which he was searching the news
columns. Pen observed at once that it was not the Counsell case that
interested him. That still occupied the most prominent position on the
first page but his eyes merely skated over it. It was something else
he was looking for. He turned the page and his intent eyes traveled it
column by column.
On the third page they came to a stop. Pen saw his grasp tighten on
the paper until the edges of his thumb nails turned white. A little
knot of muscle stood out on his jaw. Unfortunately Pen could not see
his eyes, but from the extraordinary tenseness of his attitude she
guessed the look in them. Whatever it was he read it was brief. He
relaxed; a long breath escaped him. He let the paper fall and turned
to Pen. There was a new brightness in his face. Certain lines of
anxiety were smoothed out. Cynical satisfaction was writ large there.
He all but laughed in his relief. He made no further pretense of
reading the paper, but lit a fresh cigar and cocking it up between his
lips puffed away like a man well pleased with the world.
As well as she could Pen had marked in her mind the spot on the third
page where his glance had rested. It was the New York _Courier_ he was
reading. She had to be careful not to betray her hand. She made
believe to go on searching through the paper she had. Finally she let
it fall.
"It's not here either," she said.
"What's that?" asked Riever comfortably.
"One of the New York papers has a fashion department they call 'A Daily
Hint from Paris'. But I don't know which one it is."
"Can't say that I ever noticed it myself," said Riever grinning. "But
try the Courier."
This was more than she had dared hope for. She took the paper from him
in a hand that she forced to be steady. For awhile she turned the
pages in the haphazard way that one searches through a strange
newspaper. Riever meanwhile was sitting beside her regarding his cigar
with half closed eyes, and making a little humming sound between his
teeth. Clearly he was intent upon thoughts that were miles away from
her.
Pen ventured to let her gaze rest on the third page. The make-up of
that page, news and advertisements, was such that she had little
difficulty in picking out what she was looking for. There was but the
one short item of news near the bottom of the page in the middle
column. This is what Pen read:
EAST-SIDE GANGSTER MISSING
"A girl who gave her name as Blanche Paglar of ---- Elizabeth St.,
became hysterical at police headquarters this morning upon being
informed by the police that there was no clue to the disappearance of
Henry, alias Spike Talley, 24, same address. The girl had previously
reported that Talley had been missing since the night of May 27th. She
received scant sympathy from the police who told her that if the young
man had met with foul play it was probably in the pursuit of his own
nefarious occupations. Spike Talley was a leading member of the
notorious Chick Murphy gang, and is suspected of complicity in half a
dozen crimes of violence."
Pen turned a little giddy. Her heart pounded so that she thought
Riever must hear it. Dared she credit what this story implied? Had
she come upon the key to the whole mystery? Had she? Had she? She
leaned back in the divan and held the paper up in front of her so that
he could not see her face.
When her breast quieted down she sternly reminded herself that this was
but slim evidence on which to build a case. She might be mistaken
altogether. She might be merely reading into the item what she desired
to find there. She determined to put it to the test. But she had to
wait awhile before she dared trust her voice.
It was Riever who said at last coaxingly: "Put down the paper."
Pen did so. Her face was perfectly composed now. Her voice even as
she said: "Here's a curious little story."
"What's that?" said Riever.
"A girl goes to the police for help in finding her lover. They laugh
at her because he was a gangster."
For an instant Riever looked at her like an animal at bay, his teeth
showing, his eyes senseless with terror. It was gone in a snap of the
fingers, but it was enough.
"I guess that's common enough," he said with a laugh.
"What a situation for a story," said Pen.
"Oh yes, if you like that sort of story," he said, flicking the ash off
his cigar.
Pen said to herself with a swelling breast: "I have made a beginning!"
No need for her to secure the paper. Those names and that address were
etched on her brain.
Riever's start of terror had been due to a reflex action of which he
was scarcely conscious. He did not suspect that he had betrayed
himself. He must have argued that it was impossible that Pen should
connect him with that item in the paper. Her speaking of it could only
have been a coincidence. So his satisfaction was undisturbed. They
talked on about all sorts of things. But Pen was wild to get into
action now.
Her opportunity came when one of Riever's men came to ask if he had any
orders for the boat. It was returning to the Island to get the regular
mail which arrived about noon.
Pen said to Riever: "This would be a good chance for me to get my
shopping done. If I might..."
"Certainly," said Riever. "If you must. May I come too?"
This was awkward. It could not be evaded though. "It's your boat,"
said Pen, smiling.
"Yours for this trip."
"Charmed to have you," said Pen. "... But you can't look over my
shoulder when I'm making my poor little purchases."
"I'll wait in the boat for you."
The slim mahogany tender which lay alongside had cost as much as many a
well-to-do man's cruiser. Nothing like her had ever cleaved the waters
of the Pocomico. She had the speed of a railway train. Pen was handed
in to a little sheltered nook in the stern. Riever sank down beside
her and they were off with a leap, throwing a wall of water back from
either side of the bow.
But Pen was oblivious to their passage. Her glance was far withdrawn.
"What are you thinking about?" asked Riever.
"My shopping," she answered instantly. "It's quite a problem. There's
so little to choose from in the Island stores."
"Wouldn't you like to go up to Baltimore for a day?" he asked.
This was what Pen had been angling for. "I might like it," she said,
"but..." she finished with a shrug.
"Well, there are the cars running up and down empty every day. Why not
go up Monday morning?"
"Monday is wash-day," said Pen.
"Tuesday, then."
Pen considered. "All right," she said. "I would like to go on
Tuesday."
"That's settled then."
Pen saw from his look that he meant to come with her. That was to be
expected. She must adjust her plans accordingly.
In three minutes they were at the wharf in front of the store. It was
like magic. The _Pee Bee_ took a good twenty minutes to do it. Pen
stepped out, a sailor was sent up to the Post-office, and Riever
remained in the boat, a target for curious stares. He hated to be
stared at, and he presently gave the word for the tender to wait out in
the stream.
The store was a rambling structure added to from time to time as
business increased. The clerks were engaged in a continual marathon
from one distant shelf to another. The three young men contended for
the privilege of waiting on Pen, who was a prime favorite even with the
touchy Island people who by turns resented and laughed at her father.
Pen was entirely unaffected and friendly, quite unconscious of her own
reserve. In short she kept alive a fine old tradition of gentility.
She was "Pen" to the three youths and they were "George" and "Stanley"
and "Roy" to her, yet a gulf separated them.
In order to keep up her role of shopper Pen was obliged to purchase a
chip basket which she did not want, and a number of articles which she
could use of course, but which she had not intended to get that
morning. Her purpose in coming to the Island was to send off a letter.
She could not write it in the post-office because the sailor from the
_Alexandra_ was waiting there, so she bought paper and envelope in the
store and wrote it on the counter.
She had been revolving the opening sentences on her way over. So
concentrated was she upon her task that the bustle, the running to and
fro in the store disturbed her not a whit. Through the open door she
could see the mahogany tender floating out in the creek with Riever
sitting in his place smoking one of the endless succession of cigars,
and she knew she was safe from interruption in that direction.
"Dear Blanche Paglar:
"I read in the New York _Courier_ this morning of your search for Spike
Talley. Perhaps I can give you a clue. I cannot hold out any hope to
you that he is still alive, but anyway I suppose it would be a relief
to you to learn the truth. But I don't want to deceive you. I am sure
of nothing yet. I have only a suspicion. I thought if we could put
what little I know with what you know we might clear up the whole
thing."
Having written this much Pen paused and reread it with a frown. It
sounded too cut and dried. She wished to win this unknown girl's
heart. It was nothing to Pen at that moment that Blanche had loved a
gangster and was perhaps herself a criminal. All Pen considered was
that Blanche had lost her lover, and that Pen's own lover was in
terrible danger. That made them sisters. She continued, from the
heart:
"I am a girl like yourself. I understand much that was not written in
the paper. Like yourself I love somebody who is threatened by a worse
fate than that which I suppose may have overtaken your friend. And at
the hands of the same man. We ought to be friends. We ought to help
one another."
Pen's eyelids prickled as she wrote this. She forced down the emotion,
and continued more soberly:
"I dare not write all I suspect to one who is still a stranger to me.
Will you meet me in Baltimore on Tuesday at noon? I shall be waiting
for you in front of the notion counter in Douglas' department store.
Anybody will direct you to it. I don't know what you look like of
course, but you may recognize me by a blue silk turban stitched with
red. My hair and eyes are dark. You may take a good look at me before
you make yourself known, and decide if I look like a person who can be
trusted. Don't speak to me if I am not alone. Even if I am alone I
may be watched, and it would be better for you to greet me like an old
friend. I will enclose a post-office order for fifteen dollars to pay
your fare to Baltimore and back."
Pen was afraid to put her name to this. She hated anonymity, and
realized that it would raise a justifiable suspicion in the other
girl's breast, but within the past few days the newspapers had made the
name of Pendleton Broome almost as famous as that of Donald Counsell.
How could she take the risk? Suppose her letter ended in the
newspapers? She turned hot and cold at the thought. Even the
post-mark Absolom's Island would give too much away. But she had to
take that chance. She couldn't put down a false name either. She
finally signed her letter: "Your Would-be Friend."
When she finally held her letter enclosed, and addressed in her hand,
her heart failed her for a moment. "It will only arouse her
suspicions," she thought. "She'll never come!" Pen steeled her
resolution. "In that case I'll go to her!"
Pen got a blank check from one of the clerks, filled it out and cashed
it. There went her chance of the new hat she needed so badly. Leaving
her purchases in the store for the moment she went on up the road to
the post-office. The store looked out over the waters of Back Creek.
You went up a little rise and found yourself looking out over the river
from the other side of the Island. The post-office stood on the corner
where the road turned up-stream. It was only a couple of hundred yards
from the store but outside the range of Riever's vision from the tender.
The mail bus had just arrived and a certain proportion of the Islanders
were hanging about outside the little building, waiting for the
distribution. During this interval the door was always locked but Pen
enjoyed privileges there. She knocked, and the post-master, Sammy
Cupples, seeing who it was, made haste to open.
She made out her application for the money-order at the little desk in
the corner, and Sammy paused long enough in the work of distribution to
issue it, so that it might get in that day's mail. The bus went back
immediately. It would reach Baltimore some time before night, and the
letter would be delivered in New York the first thing Monday morning.
When it dropped into the mail-bag a tight hand was laid on Pen's heart
for a moment and she would have given anything to have it back. But
the die was cast.
Pen returned to the store. One of the youths carried her basket out on
the wharf. The tender swept around in a graceful circle and came
alongside. Riever stood up to hand Pen in. The Island boy's eyes
goggled a little at the famous man. Riever looked his worst when he
showed his yellow teeth in a loverly smile. Pen shuddered at him
inwardly, thinking: "You would not be smiling if you knew what I had
just done!"
As soon as the man came with the mail they sped back to Broome's Point.