Her very name was an
allurement. Mademoiselle Violet! How softly it fell from the lips! . . .
God in heaven, what was that? He started round, trembling in every
limb. It was nothing more than the closing of the smoking room door
behind him. Sailors with buckets and mops were already beginning their
nightly tasks. He must go to his state room! Somehow or other, he must
get through the night . . .
He did it, but he was not a very prepossessing looking object when he
staggered out on deck twelve hours later, into the noon sunshine. The
chair towards which he looked so eagerly was occupied. He scarcely
knew himself whether that little gulp of acute feeling, which shot
through his veins, was of relief or disappointment. While he
hesitated, Wingrave raised his head.
Wingrave did not, as a rule, speak to his fellow passengers. Of
Richardson, he had not hitherto taken the slightest notice. Yet this
morning, of all others, he addressed him.
"I believe," he said, holding it out towards him, "that this envelope
is yours. I found it under your chair."
Richardson muttered something inarticulate, and almost snatched it
away. It was the envelope of the fatal letter which Mademoiselle
Violet had written him to Queenstown.
"Sit down, Mr. Richardson, if you are not in a hurry," Wingrave
continued calmly. "I was hoping that I might see you this morning. Can
you spare me a few minutes?"
Richardson subsided into his chair.
Pages:
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120