LONDON
They went below, and Behrens put on his spectacles and opened an
account-book. Seated at the cabin table, and seemingly dismissing
the marbles, Visconti, and everything else from his mind, this
extraordinary man began to go into the accounts of the voyage with
Bobby, the payment for this and that, the crew's wages, provisions
bought in Genoa, harbour dues, everything.
It took half an hour, and then, leaving the _Lorna_, they went to the
inn for luncheon. Visconti had already departed for town, so they
had the place to themselves. When luncheon was over they went to the
cottage to inspect the vases, Behrens nearly weeping at the rough
packing around them, and at the thought of what might have happened to
them.
"It was Providence," said he. "You did your best. You did well. But
how were you to know? No one but an expert should touch such things.
I will telegraph now for my man, Fernandez, to come, bringing with
him a lorry. I take charge of everything now, Mr. Lestrange, and all
responsibility. When I have weighed up matters, you shall receive your
cheque, which you will doubtless divide with your friends."
"Not with me," said Martia. "I have done nothing."
"Nor with me," said Sam. "I went for the cruise. I said so at first. I
have had the fun of the thing and that's all I want."
Now Behrens could understand all sorts and conditions of men, but he
could not understand a small yachtsman of the type of Hackett. He
thought he was mad in a mild sort of way, and he as much as said so.
"I don't want money," said Sam. "But I tell you what I will do. I'll
buy the _Lorna_ from you, if you'll let me have her cheap."
"That," said Behrens, "you must settle with Mr. Lestrange. He will act
for me in selling the ship. I know nothing of ship matters."
They returned to the inn, Sam short in his manner and feeling rather
snubbed. He could no more understand the art-dealer than the art-dealer
could understand him, or the fact that the _Lorna_ was more to Samuel
Hackett than all the treasures of Hyalos. Martia was silent and Bobby
gloomy. It was only now that the tension of the struggle with Visconti
was relaxed that Bobby came under the blighting sense that Martia was
lost to him, that she was Sam's; and that the biggest cheque that
Behrens could pay him would fail to bring him happiness.
It was past three o'clock when they reached the inn.
"I shall go up to town by the five o'clock train," said Bobby. "There's
nothing more to be done here and I wired yesterday to my landlady that
I would be back to-day or to-morrow."
"I'll go with you," said Martia. "There's nothing I can do, and mother
is expecting me. Are you staying?" turning to Sam.
"Yes," he replied. "I'll see you in town, but I'd better stay to-night
to help to look after things. And I want to have a look at the
_Sandfly_, to see how she's getting on."
Bobby went off to his room to pack, leaving the two lovers to say
good-bye. A couple of hours later, seated alone with Martia in a
first-class compartment of the Bournemouth express, it seemed to him
that disaster at the hands of Visconti would have been almost better
than this flat ending of his great adventure. What was the use of
anything now, with the only woman he would ever care a button for lost
to him as surely as that Victory they had dumped overboard in the Bay
of Hyalos?
As he sat, gloomy and distrait, whilst Martia in her corner of the
carriage was turning over the pages of an illustrated weekly and
seeming to have forgotten for a moment his existence, he went over
again in his mind the whole expedition: Genoa and the Greek bay, the
salving of the marbles, Visconti and Pirelli, and the voyage home. It
was all like a dream, the happiest dream, and it was over and done with
for ever.
His gloom and depression seemed to have communicated themselves to the
girl.
Even when the moment for parting came at Victoria, it did not help
things much in the way of cheerfulness.
"I'll come round and see you at the office," said Bobby. "I expect you
won't be settled down for a day or two, and I don't expect I'll hear
anything from Behrens yet. When he does write, and if by any chance
that cheque comes along, I am quite determined----Well, no matter. We
will talk the matter over then."
He closed the taxi-cab door on her and gave directions to the driver. A
little white hand, just stripped of its glove, came out of the window
and he took it in his. Then, as the cab drove away, he turned to see
after his luggage.