She made no sound while the danger lasted, but the moment the hurtling,
white body had fallen short, she rushed to the side, peering down into
the yeasty scum of churned-up blackness. She was speaking rapidly in a
foreign language, laughing softly with malicious triumph and shaking a
small, clenched fist at the night. It was thus that a woman at Jezreel
must have looked, when she painted her face and tired her hair and
leaned out of her palace window, jeering at the charioteer who had been
sent to slay her. The passionate eloquence of Santa's gestures thrilled
as much as it shocked Hindwood; it made her appearance of lavish
modernity seem a disguise. And yet he admired her more than ever; it was
her courage he admired. Putting his arm about her roughly, “Enough,” he
said. “You're coming inside.”
She darted back her head in defiance like a serpent about to strike.
Then recognition of him dawned in her eyes. She ceased to struggle and
relaxed against his breast. It was only for a second. Slipping her arm
submissively into his, “Very well. If you say so,” she whispered.
Guiding her steps across the slippery deck, he pushed open the door of a
little saloon and entered. The atmosphere was blue with wreaths of smoke
and heavy with the smell of tobacco. At a table in the center, beneath a
swinging lamp, the immigration officers were dealing cards and settling
their debts with pennies. They were too absorbed in their petty gambling
to notice what was going on about them. In a corner, outside the circle
of light, he found a trunk and ordered her to sit down. The meekness
with which she complied flattered his sense of her dependence. He might
really have been a Pasha and she his slave-girl.
He did not understand her. She cozened and baffled him. People and
things which he did not understand were apt to rouse his resentment,
especially when they were women. His distrust of the sex was inherent.
But as he watched this woman drooping in the shadows, his pity came
uppermost. She was so alone, so unprotected. The hour was late--long
past midnight. Her storm of emotion had exhausted her. It was absurd
that he should have allowed himself to become so jealous. He could never
have made her his wife. The chances were, she would not have accepted
him; she belonged to a more modish world. And if she had, she would have
driven him from his course with her whims and tempests. She would have
wrecked his career with her greed for wealthy trappings. He and she
were utterly different. They had nothing in common but their physical
attraction.
He was seeing things clearly. With each fresh whiff of land, affairs
were regrouping themselves in their true perspective. He had been the
shuttlecock of a shipboard flirtation. He had magnified infatuation
into a grand passion. On many a previous voyage he had been the amused
spectator of just such profitless expenditures of sentiment. And here
he was, a victim of the same foolishness! The futility of the ending
was the adventure's condemnation. Probably she was indulging in similar
reflections! Within an hour of stepping ashore they would have lost
sight of each other forever. After so much intimacy and misplaced
emotion, they would walk out of each other's life without regret. Partly
out of curiosity, but more out of courtesy, he seated himself beside her
for what he intended should be their last conversation.
“What happens next?”
She clutched her furs more closely about her. “I don't know.”
“But you must know,” he persisted. “What I meant was, where is your
destination?”
“London.” Then she added wearily, “You could have discovered by
examining my labels.”
Her fatigue made him the more determined to be helpful. “I didn't ask
out of impertinence, but because I thought it would be London. Probably
there'll be no train to London to-night. If the Prince had been with us,
they'd have put on a special, but you and I are the only passengers,
and neither of us is sufficiently important. Besides, after this delay,
it'll be nearly daylight before we clear the Customs.”
“Then I'll have to sleep in Plymouth.”
“Perhaps you'll be met by friends?”
He had no sooner hazarded the suggestion than an obvious conjecture
flashed through his mind. The marvel was that it had not flashed
earlier. _She might be married._ If the conjecture proved correct,
it would put the final punishing touch of satire to this wild-goose
romance.
Sweeping him with her pale, derisive eyes, “Friends!” she murmured. “You
may set your mind at rest. I shall be met by no friends.”
After that there was silence, a silence interrupted at intervals by the
exclamations of the players as they thumped down their cards and raked
in their pennies.
For relief he reverted to the subject uppermost in both their minds. “I
wonder what became of him.”
“I wonder.” Her tone betrayed no interest.
“I've been trying to think back,” he said, “trying to remember when last
I saw him.”
“Yes.”
“I believe I last saw him alive just after----”
She spun round, as though jerked on wires. “Alive! Who suggests that he
isn't alive?”
“No one. I'm the first. But if he isn't found by to-morrow, the
suggestion will be on the lips of all the world.”
“I doubt it.”
“You do?” Hindwood smiled. “Men of the Prince's eminence are not
allowed to vanish without a stir. I'm only hoping that you and I are not
involved in it. We were the only people with whom he associated on the
voyage. We're likely to be detained and certain to be questioned. For
all we know the air's full of Marconi messages about us at this moment.”
Her face had gone white. “About us? What had we to do with it?”
“Nothing. But when a tragedy of this sort occurs, we're all liable to be
suspected.”
She gazed at him intently. “Then you think there was a tragedy?”
“I feel sure of it. It's my belief that he either fell or was pushed
overboard. Somewhere out there in the darkness he's bobbing up and down.
It's almost as though I could see him. I couldn't feel more sure if----”
She shuddered and pressed against him. “You're trying to frighten me.
I won't be frightened. It's all nonsense what you're saying. Why should
any one want to push him over?”
“I'm sorry,” he apologized. “I didn't mean to frighten you. Perhaps
we're wasting our breath and already he's been found.”
“No, but why should any one want to push him over?” she urged.
“I can't answer that. But he wasn't liked. One could be fascinated by
his personality, but one couldn't like him. Take yourself--weren't you
telling me a few minutes ago how intensely you hated him?”
She nodded. “He was the sort of man every woman had the right to hate.”
After a pause she faced him, completely mistress of herself. “When did
you last see him?”
“I'm not certain.” Hindwood hesitated. “As far as I remember, it was
after dinner in the lounge. He was giving some instructions about his
baggage. When did you?”
“After dinner in the lounge.” Her eyes met his and flickered. “It must
have been shortly after eight, for I spent till ten in my stateroom
finishing my packing.”
Before she had made an end, he knew that she had lied. Several times
after dinner he had walked past her stateroom, hoping for a last
encounter. Her trunks and cases had been piled in the passage, already
locked and strapped. He had tried to discover from the stewardess her
whereabouts and had been told that since dining she had not returned. He
had gone on deck in search of her, hunting everywhere. It must have been
shortly after ten that he had come across two shadowy figures in the
bows. They were whispering together. They might have been embracing.
The man's figure had been too dim for him to identify, but he could have
sworn that the woman's was hers.
He had reached this point in his piecing together of evidence, when he
noticed that the card-players were pushing back their chairs.
Santa touched his arm gently. “I think we're there.”
The next moment the soft bump of the tug against the piles confirmed the
news of their arrival.
V
It began to look as if all hope of rest would have to be abandoned. At
the moment of landing the dock had been almost festive. There had been
a group of railway officials, mildly beaming and fussily important, who
had approached Hindwood as he stepped ashore, with “Prince Rogovich,
if we are not mistaken?” There had been another group of newspaper
reporters who, having addressed him as “Your Highness,” and having
discovered their error, had promptly turned their backs on him.
There had been a Major in uniform, with a monocle in his eye, who had
pranced up, tearing off a salute and announcing, “I'm detailed by the
Foreign Office, your Excellency.”
When they had learned that the Prince had unaccountably avoided
Plymouth, their atmosphere of geniality faded. The special train, which
was to have borne him swiftly to London, was promptly canceled. Within
ten minutes, muttering with disgust, all the world except two porters
had dribbled off into the night.
In the waiting-room where, pending the inspection of the Customs
officers, Hindwood and Santa were ordered to remain, their reception was
no more enlivening. At first, when they had entered, a lunch-counter
had been spread, gleaming with warmth and light. Before mirrors, girl
attendants had been self-consciously reviewing their appearance with
smiles of brightest expectation. Their expectancy had been quickly
dulled by the news of the Prince's non-arrival. They had scarcely spared
time to supply the wants of the two travelers before they had started
to close up. The ticket clerk had copied the girls' example. As he had
pulled down the shutter of his office he had briefly stated, “No train
till the eight-thirty in the morning.”
After that they had been left--he and this strange woman--in the drafty
gloom of the ill-lighted dockstation. The two porters had huddled down
and snored among the baggage; Santa, closing her eyes, had appeared to
join them in their slumbers.
At last a solitary Customs officer had arrived. He volunteered no
explanation for his delay. He was evidently newly risen, half awake,
and in a mood of suppressed irritation. His examination was perfunctory.
Having completed his barest duty, he likewise made his exit. It was
then, when all their troubles seemed ended, that the porters had
informed them that it was necessary for passengers to see their luggage
weighed and personally to supervise its being loaded in the van for
London.
Hindwood turned to his companion. “You're tired. You'd better be off to
bed. I'll see this through for you.”
Half an hour later, when he had complied with all formalities and was
free to seek a bed himself, he remembered that he hadn't inquired
where she would be staying and that he didn't know the name of a hotel.
Wondering where he should sleep and how he could reach her with the
receipts for her trunks, he wandered out into the yard of the station.
The first grayness of dawn was spreading. A chill was in the air. Behind
the sepulchers of muted houses a cock was crowing. He gazed up and down.
Near the gate a horse-drawn cab was standing. Its lamp burned dimly,
on the point of flickering out. The driver sat hunched on the box; the
horse hung dejectedly between the shafts. They both slumbered immovably.
Crossing the yard, he shook the man's arm. “Hi! Wake up. I want you to
drive me to a good hotel.” The man came to with a jerk. “A good 'otel!
That's wot the lady wanted. You must be the gen'leman I wuz told to wait
for.”
Hindwood nodded. “So you've driven the lady already! Then you'd better
take me to wherever you took her.”
He had opened the door and was in the act of entering when the horse
started forward, making him lose his balance. As he stretched out his
hands to steady himself, what was his surprise to discover that the cab
was already tenanted!