“Please sit down,” he said with cold politeness. “We're safe for the moment. As you see, I've lowered the blinds. No one can spy on us. You've noticed him?”
Drawing off her gloves, she smoothed them out mechanically, maintaining her silence.
“Tell me,” he urged, “what do you make of him?”
“Nothing.” Her voice was flat and toneless. “Wherever I go, it's always the same. You ought to know—on the Ryndam you were like it.”
He passed over the implied accusation. “Then you don't think he's a——?”
“I've not troubled to think.” She glanced drearily aside. “Men are brutes. If you'd left me alone on the cliff—I wish you had. It would have been all ended.”
She said it without spite—almost without reproach. In the presence of her melancholy, he recovered something of his compassion.
“But I didn't leave you, and nothing's gained by recrimination. The point is this fellow next door. What's his purpose? How are we going to manage him?”
“Easily. Fling me to him as you'd toss a dog a bone. You'll be rid of your share of the danger.”
“I don't want to be rid of you.” He passed his hand across his forehead, mastering his impatience.