"It's my boat. He is—kindly acting as our skipper. If you would care to go below, and satisfy yourself that La—that your wife isn't on board, please do so."
Sir Alec looked at her, and she looked at him, straight in the eyes, as why should she not, poor girl, having no guilty secret of her own to conceal?
"Thank you," he said. "If I've your word for it, that's enough. I won't go below. Instead, I will bid you good afternoon, and get back to my own boat—if I can. But first—Starr, do you know where my wife is?"
"I don't," said I. "That I swear. I only wish I did, and I'd tell you like a shot. Why don't you advertise in the papers: 'Come home. Forget and forgive. I'll do the same.' Or something of the sort? I'm perfectly sure that would fetch her, for she's very fond of you, you know—or ought to know. She told me once that, in spite of all, you were one of the best fellows in the world."
"Did she really?" the poor chap asked, his face flushing up—not with rage this time.
"She did, indeed."
"Thank you," he said absent-mindedly. He thought for a moment, and then spoke quickly, "Well, Brederode, I'm not sure that I oughtn't to apologize."
"I am sure, Sir Alec," Alb answered. But he was smiling.
"Here goes, then." The big Scotsman held out his hand. The tall Dutchman in the blue overalls took it.
"I don't know about you, Starr," said Sir Alec. "I'm inclined to feel that you, at all events, have treated me rather badly. As my wife's——"