“If you please, Grant,” she said, “I want my clothes.”

His words, even to himself, sounded pitifully inadequate.

“How on earth did you get here?” he demanded.

“It was rather difficult,” she admitted. “I had a lot of luck. Can I have some coffee or something? I haven’t had anything since I came on board.”

“When was that?” he asked.

“Four o’clock yesterday morning. I’m starving. I was afraid you’d hear me crying in the night.”

“Good God!” he groaned. “Come down to my room. You mustn’t let them see you like that.”

She followed him down to his own quarters. He shut the door, watched her sink into a chair, and stood over her.

“Tell me about it,” he said simply.

“After we got home,” she began, “—and they made me play roulette until two o’clock—Otto was simply brutal. I couldn’t bear it any longer, and the thought of your going. I gambled once before in life, you see. I gambled again. I gave Ottilie, my maid, all the money I had. She packed a trunk for me and addressed it to you. It came on board with a lot of other things. It must be somewhere about. That was easy enough. The difficulty was to get here myself. I borrowed a chauffeur’s overcoat, put it on over all my things and a cap that hid my face. I walked up and down the docks for an hour, until I saw a chance. Then I came down the gangway, slipped along the empty side of the deck, got down the companionway—I had to hide twice behind doors—but eventually I got to the door of the stateroom which you said you kept for any special guest, and which I knew wasn’t to be used this voyage. I crawled in, locked the door, and lay down. I hid there and waited. It must have been about four or five o’clock yesterday morning. I heard all the people come on with Stores. I heard Lord Yeovil come on board. I heard your voices as you walked up and down with him. All the time I lay there in terror. Then I heard the rush of the water and the anchor come up. I heard the engines and knew we were out at sea. Still I dared not show myself. I was afraid.”

“Afraid,” he repeated mechanically.

“I was afraid you’d send me back. I knew there was only one chance—to stay on board long enough. I hid all day, terrified lest some one should look in the stateroom. At night I felt so ill that I almost gave up, but somehow or other I dropped off to sleep. When I woke I felt faint, and I found myself crying. I went to sleep again, though. This morning, as soon as I heard your voice on deck, I crept up the stairs and here I am. I am here, Grant. You are not going to be cruel?”

He rang the bell.

“Some coffee, an omelette, quickly,” he ordered from the astonished steward. “Serve it here. Let me have the coffee at once.”

“Don’t keep me alive unless you are going to be kind to me,” she begged hysterically. “I couldn’t bear it, Grant. Tell me you are not going to land me anywhere. Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I was thinking,” he answered.

“Grant, you cared for me once,” she went on. “I know I must look perfectly hateful now, but I’m not hateful. I’m really rather wonderful. I could be. Otto was killing me, and all the horrible things he made me do. Grant, say something to me. Feel my hands, how cold they are. Be kind to me.”

“My dear, who could be anything but kind to you?” he exclaimed. “But you must realise—you must know—this is a terrible thing you have done.”

He took her hands and held them in his for a minute. The steward brought in the coffee. The boy followed behind, a moment or two later, with an omelette and cold meats. Grant felt suddenly stifled. He turned towards the door.

“I’m going to leave you for a short time,” he announced. “You must drink your coffee and you must eat something. I’m going to try and find out where your things are. I will have them put in a room for you and a bath got ready. We can’t talk until you are yourself again.”

She looked at him wistfully.

“I’ll do just as you tell me. Grant,” she promised.

“Then first of all drink your coffee while it is hot,” he insisted.

He made his way on deck. For a moment he could scarcely realise that this was the same cruise, the same ship, the same deck he had walked a few moments ago. He tried to face the matter calmly. She had been on board since the night after Blunn’s party, the remainder of that early morning, and all the next night. By this time every one in Monte Carlo probably knew,—probably she knew. No one would ever believe the truth. No one could ever be told the truth. There was no explanation, no defence. She was there alone on the yacht with him. Before they could land anywhere, two nights would have passed. A sudden storm of anger seized him! Then he remembered her, as she had almost crouched in her chair, her gorgeous clothes bedraggled, her eyes searching his like the haunted eyes of a dumb animal in fear. What way was there out of it? He had faced problems before, difficult problems. How could he deal with this one?

Presently he returned to his quarters and sent for his own servant.

“Brookes,” he asked, “did you know anything about a lady being on board?”

“Nothing, sir, until a few minutes ago when I saw her coming up the companionway,” the man assured him.

“Have you heard any one else allude to it in any way?”

“No one, sir.”

“It appears that she sent a trunk here, or a package addressed to me, containing her clothes,” Grant continued after a moment’s pause. “Kindly search for it and have it taken to the Empire suite aft. Prepare a bath there and everything that is necessary. Find the lady and let her know. She will lunch with me in the saloon.”

“Very good, sir,” the man replied.

And after that! He busied himself for an hour or so in the minor affairs of the ship. The captain found him studying the chart.

“When should we make Gibraltar, Martin?” he enquired.

“Sunday morning, sir, as early as you like. I’ll guarantee the coal, though.”

Grant nodded.

“I may decide to put in,” he said. “I’ll let you know.”

Gibraltar! A hopeless place. How could he possibly leave her there amongst strangers? And yet, if not, it must be Madeira, worse still, or New York. Eight days alone with the woman with whom he had once been in love,—the memory of whose kisses had never altogether passed. It all seemed very hopeless. His own marked attentions to Gertrude during the last week or so—attentions persisted in partly to lull her suspicions and partly to keep her away from Arthur Lymane—came back to his mind. There was probably not a soul in the world who would hold him blameless for what had happened. A diabolical trick of fate!

He came down the deck a few minutes before lunch time and found Gertrude established in a long chair,—a very changed and resuscitated Gertrude. She was wearing a white serge costume; her hair—she wore no hat—shone in the warm light with the colour of cowslips in a sun-soaked meadow. She was herself again, soignée, as perfect in the small details of her toilette as though her maid had spent the morning by her side. Brookes appeared with two cocktails on a tray, just as Grant arrived. She took one readily and smiled at her distracted host.

“This is wonderful,” she murmured. “I never wanted anything so much in my life. The epoch to which my reputation belongs is finished,” she went on, a moment or two later. “You can put me off somewhere if you want to and make me appear ridiculous. I do not think that you will be so cruel as that, though.”

“No,” he admitted. “I do not think I shall. But, in the name of God, what made you do it?”

“I have tried to explain,” she answered. “Perhaps presently I may be more coherent. Am I allowed to lunch with you?”

“By all means. The bugle has just gone. Let me help you out.”

Her fingers clung to his, and she took his arm as they passed down the companionway and entered the beautiful little saloon. She looked round her almost affectionately.

“I didn’t think I should be here again so soon,” she murmured.

“Neither did I,” he answered.

&............