mised
more even than her spoken words, all the perfume and mystery of her
wonderful presence. Her very name was an allurement. Mademoiselle
Violet! How softly it fell from the lips!... God in heaven, what was
that? He started round, trembling in every limb. It was nothing more
than the closing of the smoking room door behind him. Sailors with
buckets and mops were already beginning their nightly tasks. He must go
to his state room! Somehow or other, he must get through the night...

He did it, but he was not a very prepossessing looking object when he
staggered out on deck twelve hours later, into the noon sunshine. The
chair towards which he looked so eagerly was occupied. He scarcely knew
himself whether that little gulp of acute feeling, which shot through
his veins, was of relief or disappointment. While he hesitated, Wingrave
raised his head.

Wingrave did not, as a rule, speak to his fellow passengers. Of
Richardson, he had not hitherto taken the slightest notice. Yet this
morning, of all others, he addressed him.

"I believe," he said, holding it out towards him, "that this envelope is
yours. I found it under your chair."

Richardson muttered something inarticulate, and almost snatched it away.
It was the envelope of the fatal letter which Mademoiselle Violet had
written him to Queenstown.

"Sit down, Mr. Richardson, if you are not in a hurry," Wingrave
continued calmly. "I was hoping that I might see you this morning. Can
you spare me a few minutes?"

Richardson subsided into his chair. His heart was thumping against his
ribs. Wingrave's voice sounded to him like a far-off thing.

"The handwriting upon that envelope which I have just restored to
you, Mr. Richardson, is well known to me," Wingrave continued, gazing
steadfastly at the young man whom he was addressing.

"The envelope! The handwriting!" Richardson faltered. "I--it was from--"

An instant's pause. Wingrave raised his eyebrows.

"Ah!" he said. "We need not mention the lady's name. That she should be
a correspondent of yours, however, helps me to understand better several
matters which have somewhat puzzled me lately. No! Don't go, my dear
sir. We must really have this affair straightened out."

"What affair?" Richardson demanded, with a very weak attempt at bluster.
"I don't understand you--don't understand you at all."

Wingrave leaned a little forward in his chair. His eyebrows were drawn
close together; his gaze was entirely merciless