It was with his soul swept by the pain of all the bitterness of his life
that Whitridge had turned away from the two men on deck. His memory of
bitterness began with Porter Campbell. He had feared from the day, a
week before, when the American cruiser squadron had put in to Yokohama
that somebody would recognize him. Now at the last moment his
apprehension had been fulfilled. He knew the nature of Campbell too well
to dare to hope that he would conceal his identity from the civilian to
whom he had been speaking.
Then, in a flash, he identified Campbell's companion. It was Evans, of
the consulate at Hong Kong. He had read in a paper that morning that
Evans was en route home by the _Cambodia_.
Just as he reached the window of the purser's office Whitridge
recognized Emily Granville's maid standing there. The thought seized him
that when this ship's company came to put him on the wheel of scorn that
she, too, must be there to aid in the torture. He turned quickly as if
to retreat. It was not too late; he could escape the agony and the
humiliation that he was certain was in store for him.
Even as he turned he paused with a new sadness. The call in his mother's
letter which yesterday's mail had brought to him, came to his mind. The
words were burned in his brain:
"Just to hold you in these withered old arms again and press you to my
breast as I used to do when you were a bonny baby boy--that is all I
ask. I would go through The Gate happy--and with a smile."
He turned back toward the window and as he did so he felt the throb of
the engines starting the _Cambodia_ down to the sea.
A slight woman in black, dark of skin and with her raven hair groomed
slickly after the fashion of Oriental women, looked up at him with a
surprised but happy gleam of recognition. Whitridge did not see her,
although he appeared to be looking straight at her. She paused, where
she followed a Chinese steward aft, and looked over her shoulder at him
as he went forward.
"Who is that, Moore--the one in black?" asked Evans stepping up to the
window. "Something familiar about her."
"Elsie of Shanghai," said the purser in an undertone. "Sold out and
going home."
"Ah," murmured Evans with a lifting of his brows. "Knew her from her
pictures. They're in every conceivable place."
"She has played 'the game' for all there was in it," answered the
purser.
"Say, Moore," and Evans' voice was serious, "we've picked up a rotter
here all right." The purser glanced up inquisitively. "Lavelle of the
_Yakutat's_ aboard."
"Wrong, sir. Can't be. Why--that fellow's dead, Mr. Evans. Died out East
here somewhere. Saw it in the home papers only a little while ago."
"He's not dead by a long shot. He's aboard here."
"There's no Lavelle on the passenger list."
"That means nothing," and Evans described Whitridge.
"Why, that man's name's Whitridge--an Englishman."
"Well, he's Lavelle."
"He was here----"
The purser stopped suddenly, a startled look came into his eyes; his
face flushed.
Evans, following his gaze in wonderment, turned and stepped quickly
aside. Emily Granville was standing there, her maid beside her carrying
a jewel case.
"I wish to deposit this with you, purser," she said.
There was a tremor in her voice. Every bit of color was gone from her
face. It might have been a piece of Wedgwood. She paused only long
enough to indicate that the maid would take the purser's receipt.
"Lord, but that woman's a dream," whispered Evans after the maid had
passed out of hearing. The purser looked up at him strangely. "But say,
old man, what's the matter with you?"
"I wonder if she heard you say that--that Lavelle is aboard here?"
"Why? What if she did?"
"That's Emily Granville, of San Francisco--old John Granville's
daughter. Granville and his wife were lost with the _Yakutat_, you know.
Lavelle beat them away from the side of his boat with an oar--drowned
them."
"My God!" exclaimed Evans, and he looked at the purser blankly.