7
At dinner Trent sensed a change in Dana Charteris. She was quite friendly, even inquired banteringly if he were angry because of the manner in which she left him that morning, but there was, invisible, indefinable, a reserve in her attitude that forbade a resumption of the former intimacy. This troubled him.
Later, on deck, he was brought out of his reflections by the sound of uneven footsteps. Hsien Sgam approached. He was dressed in white and seemed to Trent almost grotesque—the twisted limb and the beautiful, yet strangely sinister, face!
In the course of conversation he asked Trent's business. The answer brought forth a short discourse upon precious stones. He then touched the war—inquired if Trent had "seen service," as he termed it in a thoroughly Occidental way. Realizing that he was being catechized, Trent replied guardedly. In the East, quizzed the Mongol? No, on the Western front, Trent lied. In the infantry, Hsien Sgam assumed? Yes, the infantry....
Of course Trent had traveled a great deal, he presumed. Well, a bit, the Englishman admitted. If it were not too impertinent (thus the Mongol) he imagined Mr. Tavernake had not always been "of the trade." He had the appearance of—well, a soldier rather than a "business man"; one eager for ranges and color and action, so to speak.
It was then that Trent became more communicative. He was rather a soldier of fortune, he acknowledged; intrigue lured him. But the Mongol was as wary as he, for, perceiving the change in tactics, he turned the talk into another channel.
A few minutes later he moved on. Trent watched him limp off and puzzled over this anomaly of a man. What was his object in catechizing him? He could not even surmise; but he determined to take a drastic step toward finding out.
His first move led him to the purser's office. Closing the door quietly behind him, he said:
"I would like to borrow your pass-key a moment."
"Sorry, sir," came the polite reply, "but it's against orders. I can unlock your door—if you've lost the key—but—"
"Suppose you call the captain," Trent suggested.
"Tell him Mr. Tavernake wants to borrow the key. I'll be responsible for it."
While the purser was telephoning, Trent scanned the register. "Hsien Sgam—No. 227," he read.
"It's all right, sir," reported the purser, hanging up the receiver, a new note of respect in his voice.
Trent circled the deck, assured himself that Hsien Sgam was in the smoking-room, then went aft to cabin No. 227. A turn of the key, a glance behind into the vestibule-way, and he was inside. He locked the door; drew the curtain across the window.
A thorough search gained him little knowledge. Only clothing and a hand-grip containing perfunctory toilet articles; there were no letters, not even a passport. Evidently the Mongol carried all papers of importance upon his person.
Hardly assured, yet satisfied to a degree, Trent returned the key to the purser and made his way toward his cabin—and as he rounded a corner of the deckhouse he almost collided with Dana Charteris. She backed, half in surprise, half in fright, to the rail, and gripped the white enameled iron.
"Oh!" she flared. "You do appear at the most inopportune times!"
And she stalked past him, entering the cabin before he could recover himself enough to speak.
Perplexed, he continued to his state-room. "Inopportune, indeed," he muttered as he closed the door—for as she darted to the rail he saw her fling something overboard, an object that flashed white as it shot past the scuppers.
He sat down on the edge of the berth; filled his pipe.
What was she carrying that she did not want him to see? It could not have been of value or she would not have disposed of it in that manner. But....
He ran his fingers through his hair; puffed on his pipe.
Was it possible—? No, the very suspicion was preposterous; he was surprised that it should even occur to him. Yet, he acknowledged, a certain king of Ithaca believed in the beauty of Calypso. Forcing himself to face the situation, he reviewed his short acquaintance with Dana Charteris in a cold, scrutinizing light. The result was not altogether pleasing. Their midnight encounter on the portico at Benares was hardly reassuring, now that he looked at it through a different lens, nor was the meeting in the Chinese quarter, in Calcutta.... Intermezzo! Would it end in discord? He smiled grimly, confessing to himself that grave doubts (and, deeper than doubts, an ache that was not physical) had arisen from this new development. Had he been a fool?
He fortified his mind against such thoughts. What substantial reason had he to suspect that her interest in him was other than personal? (Personal! That word was fine ego.) The incident on deck—Well, he evaded, it might have been anything that she threw overboard, a handkerchief ... or.... At least, he would not be so unjust as to suspicion her—or anyone, he enlarged—upon such meager suppositions.
Only partially satisfied, he retired. He did not go to sleep for some time—and when he awakened in the morning, with the sun raining bronze needles at the blue sea, his first recollection was of the incident on the previous night. Considered in daylight, it lost its dark significance, but, nevertheless, made him vaguely uneasy.
This brooding discontent grew with the day. Dana Charteris was not in the dining-salon at breakfast, nor did she come on deck during the morning. He sat near her chair, waiting, his mind barred against either condemnation or justification. He would reserve his decision until he heard what she had to say. When she appeared (and it seemed that she never would) she could probably clear the incident with a few words, an explanation that would no doubt shed a light of absurdity upon his apprehensions.
But she did not appear, not even at tiffin, and he passed a restless afternoon. He walked the vessel from bow to stern, from bridge to the torrid depths where beings heaved fuel into her hungry stomach, impatient with the unseen forces that controlled his affairs.
He saw Hsien Sgam several times, but avoided him, for his mood was not a friendly one. A short interview with Guru Singh—who clung to the integrity of his honor—only served to irritate him, and a few minutes later when he came upon Tambusami, in the steerage, confabbing with the snake-charmer (he of the scar and the drooping eyelid) he snapped him up in his laconic way for having removed the dressing from his cut.
(And it would not have improved his mental estate had he seen the manner in which the snake-charmer's afflicted eye watched him leave the steerage.)
The sun sank. Its sullen crimson bled upon cirrus clouds; faded with dusk; was absorbed as night bound the sky with gauzy blue and stars came forth to cool the fevered pulse of day.
Trent had just taken his seat in the dining-salon when Dana Charteris entered. White shoulders rose above the silver-cloth and flame-blue tulle of an evening frock. The startling shade of blue challenged out the deeper tints of her eyes; her pallor was made more lustrous by red lips and russet-gold hair. At sight of her he felt the blood throb in his throat.
"I hope you haven't been ill," he said as he placed her chair.
She smiled in a rather strained manner, he thought.
"I've been a poor sailor to-day."
A pause; then he plunged. "I should like to have a word with you—alone."
She met his gaze unsmilingly. For a moment he thought she would refuse.
"There's to be a dance to-night—you knew it?" He shook his head. "Suppose I give you—the third?"
"I'd prefer not to dance," he returned solemnly.
"Then we'll go on deck."