As she paused before going down the steps Paquita darted back one more look at Shelby. Had he once felt the lure? At least now he made no move. And Paquita was insanely jealous.
“I should like to have Mr. Kennedy look over the Sybarite, especially the room which I sealed,” suggested Hastings in a tone which was not peremptory, but nevertheless was final.
Shelby looked from Hastings to Winifred. The passing of Paquita seemed to have thrown a cloud over the sunshine which had brightened the moments before. He was torn between two emotions. There was no denying the request of Hastings. Yet this was no time to leave Winifred suspicious.
“I think you had better go,” she said, finally, as Shelby hesitated.
“Would you not be one of the party?” he asked, eagerly.
“I don’t think I could stand it,” she replied, hastily.
It was perfectly natural. Yet I could see that it left Shelby uncertain of her real reason.
Reluctantly he said good-by and we four made our way down the dock to the float where was moored a fast tender of the yacht. We climbed aboard, and the man in charge started the humming, many-cylindered engine. We darted off in a cloud of spray.
Once I saw Kennedy looking back, and I looked back also. In the far corner of the Casino stood the sallow-faced man, watching us intently. Who and what could he be?
Westport Bay is one of those fjords, as they almost might be called, which run in among the beautifully wooded hills of the north shore of Long Island.