Part 30 (1/2)

”I did try to find you,” she replied; ”but the wireless room was dark.

You were nowhere on deck.”

Peter was aware that for some reason Romola Borria did not prefer to share the secret of her real or fancied danger with him. He felt a little dissatisfied, cheated, as though the straightforward answer for which he had come had been turned into the counterfeit of evasion.

The situation as it now had shaped itself demanded some sort of decision. Without the whole truth he was reluctant to leave, and it was imprudent to remain any longer.

Romola, in this constrained pause in their conversation, feeling perhaps the reason for his silence, lowered her dark lashes and drew up her feet until they were concealed by the red folds of the kimono, and she drew the satin more closely about her soft, white throat.

”You have decided nothing, then?” she parried.

”What decision I might have formed,” he said, a trifle coolly, ”has been put off by--this. You see, I must admit it, this--this rather complicates things for me. I'm in the dark altogether now, you see. I wanted to help you, however I could. And then--then I find this cameo.”

She nodded absently, fingering the groove in the automatic's handle.

”I'm afraid I took too much for granted,” she said in a low voice.

”Don't you suppose my curiosity was aroused when you threw the coolie overboard? I said nothing; rather, I asked you no questions; and I thought that a man who was self-poised enough to meet his enemies in that way would be--what shall I say?--charitable enough to overlook such a----” She paused. ”When I confessed that you and I are facing a common enemy, that the same hands are eager to do away with both of us, I thought that bond was sufficient, was strong enough, to justify what might shock an ordinary man. I mean----”

”I think I understand,” Peter took her up in contrite tones. ”I'll ask nothing more. In the morning we will talk the other matter over. I must have a little time. For the present, I want you to keep the revolver, and--here is the cameo. Forgive me for being so unreasonable, so--so selfish.”

He leaned over. She seemed uncertain a moment, then caught the gold chain lightly from his hand.

”And--your revolver,” she said. ”Those are the terms of the agreement, I believe.”

”No, no,” he protested. ”I have no use for it; none whatever. You keep it.”

But quite as resolutely Romola Borria shook her head and extended the automatic, b.u.t.t foremost, to him. ”I insist,” she said.

”But you say you're in danger,” he argued.

”No. Not now. I have something else that will do quite as well. If it is written that I am to die, why give Death cause to be angry? I am a fatalist, you see. And I want you to take back your revolver, with my apologies, and quite without any more explanation than I have given you, please.”

”But----” began Peter.

”Look,” she said.

In the small s.p.a.ce of the stateroom he could not avoid bending so low as to sense the warmth of her skin, in order to study the object toward which she was directing his gaze. A sense of hot confusion permeated him as her fingers lightly caressed his hand; her physical nearness obsessed him.

She had drawn back the fluffy pillow, and on the white sheet he glimpsed a long, bright, and exceedingly dangerous-looking dagger, with a jewel-incrusted hilt.

The singular thing about this knife was the shape of the blade, which was thin and with three sides, like a machinist's file. It would be a good dagger to throw away after a killing because of the triangular hole it would leave as a wound, a bit of evidence decidedly incriminating.

Peter straightened up, round-eyed, accepted the automatic, and slipped it into his pocket, smoothing his coat and the sarong over the lump, and approached the door.

For a moment his heart beat in a wild desire, a desire to take her in his arms as she stood so close and so quiet beside him, smiling wistfully and a little sadly; and unaccountably she seemed to droop and become small and limp and pitifully helpless in the face of him and of all mankind.

”Good night, Mr. Moore, and thank you so--much,” she murmured. ”And I do hope you will forgive me for being a--a thief.”

He thought that she was on the point of kissing him, and his eyes swam and became of a slightly deeper and more silky blue than a moment before. But she faltered back, while the faintest suggestion of a sigh came from her lips.