“He wasn't unkind. He was——” He shrugged his shoulders and spread abroad his hands. “Until something is proved, I suppose the best way to express it would be to say that he was unavoidably delayed. He left New York on a liner and disappeared on the evening that he should have landed.”
Hindwood bent forward, attempting to divert attention from Santa. He tapped the Captain's hand.
“Excuse me for intruding on a conversation which you evidently intend to include only my wife, but there are no points of call on an Atlantic voyage. If your friend started from New York and the ship was not lost, how could he have been delayed?”
“How? That's the question.”
The Captain's hostility was unmistakable, and yet the odd thing was that it exempted Santa.
While the first course was being served, Hindwood racked his brains to discover the motive which lay behind the Captain's attitude. Was he a police-agent, amusing himself and biding his time? Was he doubtful of Santa's identity and cultivating her acquaintance as a means of making certain? Was he merely a disappointed male, infuriated at finding a husband in possession?
Santa was speaking again. She had made good use of the respite to compose herself. “It must have been terribly anxious for you waiting. I suppose you were there to meet him at the port where he ought to have arrived?”
Hindwood held his breath. She was practically asking the man whether he had been one of the welcoming group of officials on that night when the Ryndam had reached Plymouth. If he had been, he must have seen them. He must remember them. He might even know their biographical details, their business, and that they were not married. At all events, if that were the case, it would explain the keenness of his interest.
“No, I wasn't at Plymouth.”
They both shot upright in their chairs and sat rigid. For a moment they had no doubt that the Captain had declared his hand.