She shuddered and pressed against him. “You're trying to frighten me. I won't be frightened. It's all nonsense what you're saying. Why should any one want to push him over?”
“I'm sorry,” he apologized. “I didn't mean to frighten you. Perhaps we're wasting our breath and already he's been found.”
“No, but why should any one want to push him over?” she urged.
“I can't answer that. But he wasn't liked. One could be fascinated by his personality, but one couldn't like him. Take yourself—weren't you telling me a few minutes ago how intensely you hated him?”
She nodded. “He was the sort of man every woman had the right to hate.” After a pause she faced him, completely mistress of herself. “When did you last see him?”
“I'm not certain.” Hindwood hesitated. “As far as I remember, it was after dinner in the lounge. He was giving some instructions about his baggage. When did you?”
“After dinner in the lounge.” Her eyes met his and flickered. “It must have been shortly after eight, for I spent till ten in my stateroom finishing my packing.”
Before she had made an end, he knew that she had lied. Several times after dinner he had walked past her stateroom, hoping for a last encounter. Her trunks and cases had been piled in the passage, already locked and strapped. He had tried to discover from the stewardess her whereabouts and had been told that since dining she had not returned. He had gone on deck in search of her, hunting everywhere. It must have been shortly after ten that he had come across two shadowy figures in the bows. They were whispering together. They might have been embracing. The man's figure had been too dim for him to identify, but he could have sworn that the woman's was hers.
He had reached this point in his piecing together of evidence, when he noticed that the card-players were pushing back their chairs.
Santa touched his arm gently. “I think we're there.”