Part 14 (1/2)

We hurried down the companion as fast as we dared, and listened to the comments of the watch above. They were soon satisfied that nothing of importance had occurred, and resumed their stations.

Before we parted on that horrible night, Edith said in a trembling voice, ”You have done your work like a brave man.”

”Say rather, like a forger and murderer,” I answered.

”No,” she maintained. ”Many men before you have done much worse in a good cause. You are not a forger. You are a diplomat. You are not a murderer. You are a hero.”

But I, being new to this work of slaughter and deception, could only deprecate her sympathy and draw away. I felt that my very presence near her was pollution. I was unclean, and I told her that I was so.

Whereupon, without hesitation, she put her arms round my neck, and said clinging closely to me:

”You are not unclean--you are free from guilt. And--Arthur--I will kiss you now.”

CHAPTER XV.

”IF NOT TOO LATE!”

When I came on deck next morning the coast of Arabia was rising, a thin thread of hazy blue between the leaden grey of the sea and the soft grey of the sky. The morning was cloudy, and the blazing sunlight was veiled in atmospheric gauze. I had hardly put my foot on deck when Natalie Brande ran to meet me. I hung back guiltily.

”I thought you would never come. There is dreadful news!” she cried.

I muttered some incoherent words, to which she did not attend, but went on hurriedly:

”Rockingham has thrown himself overboard in a hysterical fit, brought on by the heat. The sailors heard the splash--”

”I know they did.” This escaped me unawares, and I instantly prevaricated, ”I have been told about that.”

”Do you know that Herbert is ill?”

I could have conscientiously answered this question affirmatively also.

Her sudden sympathy for human misadventure jarred upon me, as it had done once before, when I thought of the ostensible object of the cruise.

I said harshly:

”Then Rockingham is at rest, and your brother is on the road to it.” It was a brutal speech. It had a very different effect to that which I intended.

”True,” she said. ”But think of the awful consequences if, now that Rockingham is gone, Herbert should be seriously ill.”

”I do think of it,” I said stiffly. Indeed, I could hardly keep from adding that I had provided for it.

”You must come to him at once. I have faith in you.” This gave me a twinge. ”I have no faith in Percival” (the s.h.i.+p's doctor).

”You are nursing your brother?” I said with a.s.sumed carelessness.

”Of course.”

”What is Percival giving him?”

She described the treatment, and as this was exactly what I myself would have prescribed to put my own previous interference right, I promised to come at once, saying: