Part 29 (1/2)

The boat was now within hailing distance. Mr. Sabin leaned down over the side and scanned its occupants closely. There was nothing in the least suspicious about them. The man who sat in the stern steering was a typical American, with thin sallow face and bright eyes. The woman wore a thick veil, but she was evidently young, and when she stood up displayed a figure and clothes distinctly Parisian. The two came up the ladder as though perfectly used to boarding a vessel in mid ocean, and the lady's nervousness was at least not apparent. The captain advanced to meet them, and gallantly a.s.sisted the lady on to the deck.

”This is Captain Ackinson, I presume,” the man remarked with extended hand. ”We are exceedingly obliged to you, sir, for taking us off. This is my wife, Mrs. James B. Watson.”

Mrs. Watson raised her veil, and disclosed a dark, piquant face with wonderfully bright eyes.

”It's real nice of you, Captain,” she said frankly. ”You don't know how good it is to feel the deck of a real ocean-going steamer beneath your feet after that little sailing boat of my husband's. This is the very last time I attempt to cross the Atlantic except on one of your steamers.”

”We are very glad to be of any a.s.sistance,” the captain answered, more heartily than a few minutes before he would have believed possible. ”Full speed ahead, John!”

There was a churning of water and dull throb of machinery restarting. The little rowing boat, already well away on its return journey, rocked on the long waves. Mr. Watson turned to shout some final instructions. Then the captain beckoned to the purser.

”Mr. Wilson will show you your state rooms,” he remarked. ”Fortunately we have plenty of room. Steward, take the baggage down.”

The lady went below, but Mr. Watson remained on deck talking to the captain. Mr. Sabin strolled up to them.

”Your yacht rides remarkably well, if her shaft is really broken,” he remarked.

Mr. Watson nodded.

”She's a beautifully built boat,” he remarked with enthusiasm. ”If the weather is favourable her canvas will bring her into Boston Harbour two days after us.”

”I suppose,” the captain asked, looking at her through his gla.s.s, ”you satisfied yourself that her shaft was really broken?”

”I did not, sir,” Mr. Watson answered. ”My engineer reported it so, and, as I know nothing of machinery myself, I was content to take his word. He holds very fine diplomas, and I presume he knows what he is talking about. But anyway Mrs. Watson would never have stayed upon that boat one moment longer than she was compelled. She's a wonderfully nervous woman is Mrs. Watson.”

”That's a somewhat unusual trait for your countrywoman, is it not?” Mr. Sabin asked.

Mr. J. B. Watson looked steadily at his questioner.

”My wife, sir,” he said, ”has lived for many years on the Continent. She would scarcely consider herself an American.”

”I beg your pardon,” Mr. Sabin remarked courteously. ”One can see at least that she has acquired the polish of the only habitable country in the world. But if I had taken the liberty of guessing at her nationality, I should have taken her to be a German.”

Mr. Watson raised his eyebrows, and somehow managed to drop the match he was raising to his cigar.

”You astonish me very much, sir,” he remarked. ”I always looked upon the fair, rotund woman as the typical German face.”

Mr. Sabin shook his head gently.

”There are many types,” he said ”and nationality, you know, does not always go by complexion or size. For instance, you are very like many American gentlemen whom I have had the pleasure of meeting, but at the same time I should not have taken you for an American.”

The captain laughed.

”I can't agree with you, Mr. Sabin,” he said. ”Mr. Watson appears to me to be, if he will pardon my saying so, the very type of the modern American man.”

”I'm much obliged to you, Captain,” Mr. Watson said cheerfully. ”I'm a Boston man, that's sure, and I believe, sir, I'm proud of it. I want to know for what nationality you would have taken me if you had not been informed?”

”I should have looked for you also,” Mr. Sabin said deliberately, ”in the streets of Berlin.”

CHAPTER XLII.

A WEAK CONSPIRATOR.

At dinner-time Mrs. Watson appeared in a very dainty toilette of black and white, and was installed at the captain's right hand. She was introduced at once to Mr. Sabin, and proceeded to make herself a very agreeable companion.

”Why, I call this perfectly delightful!” was almost her first exclamation, after a swift glance at Mr. Sabin's quiet but irreproachable dinner attire. ”You can't imagine how pleased I am to find myself once more in civilised society. I was never so dull in my life as on that poky little yacht.”

”Poky little yacht, indeed!” Mr. Watson interrupted, with a note of annoyance in his tone. ”The Mayflower anyway cost me pretty well two hundred thousand dollars, and she's nearly the largest pleasure yacht afloat.”

”I don't care if she cost you a million dollars,” Mrs. Watson answered pettishly. ”I never want to sail on her again. I prefer this infinitely.”

She laughed at Captain Ackinson, and her husband continued his dinner in silence. Mr. Sabin made a mental note of two things--first, that Mr. Watson did not treat his wife with that consideration which is supposed to be distinctive of American husbands, and secondly, that he drank a good deal of wine without becoming even a shade more amiable. His wife somewhat pointedly drank water, and turning her right shoulder upon her husband, devoted herself to the entertainment of her two companions. At the conclusion of the meal the captain was her abject slave, and Mr. Sabin was quite willing to admit that Mrs. J. B. Watson, whatever her nationality might be, was a very charming woman.

After dinner Mr. Sabin went to his lower state room for an overcoat, and whilst feeling for some cigars, heard voices in the adjoining room, which had been empty up to now.

”Won't you come and walk with me, James?” he heard Mrs. Watson say. ”It is such a nice evening, and I want to go on deck.”

”You can go without me, then,” was the gruff answer. ”I'm going to have a cigar in the smoke-room.”

”You can smoke,” she reminded him, ”on deck.”

”Thanks,” he replied, ”but I don't care to give my Laranagas to the winds. You would come here, and you must do the best you can. You can't expect to have me dangling after you all the time.”

There was a silence, and then the sound of Mr. Watson's heavy tread, as he left the state room, followed in a moment or two by the light footsteps and soft rustle of silk skirts, which indicated the departure also of his wife.

Mr. Sabin carefully enveloped himself in an ulster, and stood for a moment or two wondering whether that conversation was meant to be overheard or not. He rang the bell for the steward.

The man appeared almost immediately. Mr. Sabin had known how to ensure prompt service.

”Was it my fancy, John? or did I hear voices in the state room opposite?” Mr. Sabin asked.

”Mr. and Mrs. Watson have taken it, sir,” the man answered.

Mr. Sabin appeared annoyed.

”You know that some of my clothes are hung up there,” he remarked, ”and I have been using it as a dressing-room. There are heaps of state-rooms vacant. Surely you could have found them another?”

”I did my best, sir,” the man answered, ”but they seemed to take a particular fancy to that one. I couldn't get them off it nohow.”

”Did they know,” Mr. Sabin asked carelessly, ”that the room opposite was occupied?”

”Yes, sir,” the man answered. ”I told them that you were in number twelve, and that you used this as a dressing-room, but they wouldn't s.h.i.+ft. It was very foolish of them, too, for they wanted two, one each; and they could just as well have had them together.”

”Just as well,” Mr. Sabin remarked quietly. ”Thank you, John. Don't let them know I have spoken to you about it.”

”Certainly not, sir.”