They paced up and down the deck once or twice in silence. Then he paused as they drew near their chairs.
“Miss Beverley,” he said, “in case this should be the last time that we talk confidentially — so that we may put a seal, in fact, upon the subject of which we have spoken to-night — I would like to tell you that you have made me feel, during this last half-hour, an emotion which I have not felt for many years. And I want to tell you this. I am a lawbreaker. When I told you that there was a warrant out against me at the present moment, I told you the truth. The charge against me is a true one, and the penalty is one I shall never pay. I must go on to the end, and I shall do so because I have a driving impulse behind, a hate which only action can soothe. But all my sins have been against men and the doings of men. You will understand me, will you not, when I say that I can neither take your money, nor accept your friendship after this voyage is over? You, on your side, can remember that you have paid a debt.”
She sank a little wearily into her chair and looked out through the gathering mists. It seemed part of her fancy that they gathered him in, for she heard no sound of retreating footsteps. Yet when she spoke his name, a few moments later, she found that she was alone.
.
CHAPTER XII
Throughout the night reigned an almost sepulchral silence, and when the morning broke, the City of Boston, at a scarcely reduced speed, was ploughing her way through great banks of white fog. The decks, the promenade rails, every exposed part of the steamer, were glistening with wet. Up on the bridge, three officers besides the captain stood with eyes fixed in grim concentration upon the dense curtains of mist which seemed to shut them off altogether from the outer world. Jocelyn Thew and Crawshay met in the companionway, a few minutes after breakfast.
“I can see no object in the disuse of the hooter,” Crawshay declared querulously. “Nothing at sea could be worse than a collision. We are simply taking our lives in our hands, tearing along like this at sixteen knots an hour.”
“Isn’t there supposed to be a German raider out?” the other enquired.
“I think it is exceedingly doubtful whether there is really one in the Atlantic at all. The English gunboats patrol these seas. Besides, we are armed ourselves, and she wouldn’t be likely to tackle us.”
Jocelyn Thew had leaned a little forward. He was listening intently. At the same time, one of the figures upon the bridge, his hand to his ear, turned in the same direction.
“There’s some one who doesn’t mind letting their whereabouts be known,” he whispered, after a moment’s pause. “Can’t you hear a hooter?”
Crawshay listened but shook his head.
“Can’t hear a thing,” he declared laconically. “I’ve a cold in my head coming on, and it always affects my hearing.”
Jocelyn Thew stepped on tiptoe across the deck as far as the rail and returned in a few minutes.
“There’s a steamer calling, away on the starboard bow,” he announced. “She seems to be getting nearer, too. I wonder we don’t alter our course.”
“Well, I suppose it’s the captain’s business whether he chooses to answer or not,” Crawshay remarked. “I shall go down to my cabin. This gazing at nothing gets on my nerves.”
Jocelyn Thew returned to his damp vigil. Leaning over the wet wooden rail, he drew a little diagram on the back of an envelope and worked out some figures. Then he listened once more, the slight frown upon his forehead deepening. Finally he tore up his sketch and made his way to the doctor’s room. The doctor was seated at his desk and glanced up enquiringly as his visitor entered.
“I just looked in to see how young Robins was getting on,” Jocelyn explained.
“I am afraid he is in rather a bad way,” was the grave reply.
“What is the nature of his illness?”
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. His manner became a little vague.
“I must remind you, Mr. Thew,” he said, “that a doctor is not always at liberty to discuss the ailments of his patients. On board ship this custom becomes more, even, than mere etiquette. It is, in fact, against the regulations of the company for us to discuss the maladies of any passenger upon the steamer.”
“I recognise the truth of all that you say,” Jocelyn Thew agreed, “but it happens that I know the young man and his people. Naturally, therefore, I take an interest in him, and I am sure they would think it strange if, travelling upon the same steamer, I did not make these very ordinary enquiries.”
“You know his people, do you?” the doctor repeated. “Where does he come from, Mr. Thew?”
“Somewhere over New Jersey way,” was the glib reply, “but I used to meet his father often in New York. There can be no mystery about his illness, can there, doctor — no reason why I should not go and see him?”
“I have placed the young man in quarantine,” was the brief explanation, “and until he is released no one can go near him.”
“Something catching, eh?”
“Something that might turn out to be catching.”
Jocelyn Thew shrugged his shoulders and accepted what amounted almost to a little nod of dismissal. He ascended the staircase thoughtfully and came face to face with Katharine Beverley, issuing from the music room. She greeted him with a little exclamation of relief.
“Mr. Thew,” she exclaimed, “I have been looking for you everywhere. Doctor Gant thinks,” she added, lowering her voice, “that if you wish to see his patient alive, you had better come at once.” “There is a change in his condition, then?”
“Yes,” she told him gravely.
He stood for a moment thinking rapidly. The girl shivered a little as she watched the change in his face. Her hospital training had not lessened her awe and sympathy in the face of death, and it was so entirely obvious that Jocelyn Thew was considering only what influence upon his plans this event might have. Finally he turned and descended the stairs by her side.
“I am not at all sure that it is wise of me to come,” he said. “However, if he is asking for me I suppose I had better.”
They made their way into the commodious stateroom upon the saloon deck, which had been secured for the sick man. He lay upon a small hospital bed, nothing of him visible save his haggard face, with its ill-grown beard. His eyes were watching the door, and he showed some signs of gratification at Jocelyn’s entrance. Gant, who was standing over the bed, turned apologetically towards the latter.
“It’s the money,” he whispered. “He is worrying about that. I was obliged to send for you. He called out your name just now, and the ship’s doctor was hanging around.”
The newcomer drew a stool to the side of the bed, opened a pocketbook and counted out a great wad of notes. The dying man watched him with every appearance of interest.
“Five thousand dollars,” the former said at last. “That should bring in about eleven hundred and fifty pounds. Now watch me, Phillips.”
He took an envelope from his pocket, thrust the notes inside, gummed down the flap, and, drawing a fountain pen from his pocket, wrote an address. The dying man watched him and nodded feebly.
“These,” Jocelyn continued, “are for your wife. The packet shall be delivered to her within twelve hours of our landing in Liverpool. You can keep it under your pillow and hand it over to Miss Beverley here. You trust her?”
The man on the bed nodded feebly and turned slightly towards Katharine. She bent over him.
“I shall see myself,” she promised, “that the money is properly delivered.”
Phillips smiled and closed his eyes. It was obvious that he had no more to say. Jocelyn Thew stole softly out, followed, a moment later, by Katharine.
“The doctor thinks I am better away,” she whispered. “He won’t speak again. Poor fellow!”