Part 16 (1/2)

”Now,” said Stretton, ”we must be quick. The sea is getting worse each minute, and I have to get back to the _Perseverance_. You are----?”

”Alan Warrisden, a stranger to you.”

”Yes,” Stretton interrupted; ”how did you find me out?”

”Chase told me.”

Stretton's face flushed angrily.

”He had no right to tell you. I wished for these few weeks to be alone. He gave me his word he would tell no one.”

”He had to break his word,” said Warrisden, firmly. ”It is necessary that you should come home at once.”

Stretton laughed. Warrisden was clinging to a wire stay from the cutter's mizzen-mast, and even so could hardly keep his feet. He had a sense of coming failure from the very ease with which Stretton stood resting his hands upon his hips, unsupported on the unsteady deck.

”I cannot come,” said Stretton abruptly; and he turned away. As he turned Warrisden shouted--for in that high wind words carried in no other way--”Your father, Sir John Stretton, is dying.”

Stretton stopped. He looked for a time thoughtfully into Warrisden's face; but there was no change in his expression by which Warrisden could gather whether the argument would prevail or no. And when at last he spoke, it was to say--

”But he has not sent for me.”

It was the weak point in Warrisden's argument, and Stretton had, in his direct way, come to it at once. Warrisden was silent.

”Well?” asked Stretton. ”He has not sent for me?”

”No,” Warrisden admitted; ”that is true.”

”Then I will not come.”

”But though he has not sent for you, it is very certain that he wishes for your return,” Warrisden urged. ”Every night since you have been away the candles have been lighted in your dressing-room and your clothes laid out, in the hope that on one evening you will walk in at the door. On the very first night, the night of the day on which you went, that was done. It was done by Sir John Stretton's orders, and by his orders it has always since been done.”

Just for a moment Warrisden thought that his argument would prevail.

Stretton's face softened; then came a smile which was almost wistful about his lips, his eyes had a kindlier look. And the kindlier look remained. Kindliness, too, was the first tone audible in his voice as he replied; but the reply itself yielded nothing.

”He has not sent for me.”

He looked curiously at Warrisden, as if for the first time he became aware of him as a man acting from motives, not a mere instrument of persuasion.

”After all, who did send you?” he asked. ”My wife?”

”No.”

”Who then?”

”Miss Pamela Mardale.”

Stretton was startled by the name. It was really the strongest argument Warrisden had in his armoury. Only he was not aware of its strength.

”Oh,” said Stretton, doubtfully; ”so Miss Mardale sent you!”