Then he postponed the crisis by adding, “You see, my friend, as you call him, was traveling by the Holland-American Line, so Plymouth was where he should have landed. We had a special train arranged to hurry him to London. The first warning I received of the disaster was at Paddington, when I was informed that the special train had been canceled.”
“Then it was a disaster?”
Santa asked the question in an awed tone which, under the circumstances, was not altogether feigned. Getting a grip on herself, she leaned across the table, making her eyes large and tender. “We're fellow-travelers, chance-met. My husband and I are Americans; when we part from you, it's almost certain we shall never meet again. I'm not seeking your confidence, but you're worried. If it would help you to tell——”
The Captain shook his head gravely. He appeared to be worshiping her in everything save words, though it was possible that his adoration was mockery. “There's nothing to tell. Not yet. I wish there were. There may be something at Paris. The English police are working. They promised to keep in touch with me by telegram.”
With amazing daring Santa persisted, “But what do you suppose happened?”
Before answering the Captain arranged his knife and fork neatly on his plate. He looked up sharply like a bird of prey. “Murder. To your dainty ears that must sound shocking. I have reasons for this belief which, for the present, I'm not at liberty to share.”
During the pause that followed Hindwood was on tenterhooks lest, with her next question, she should betray herself. To prevent her, he flung himself into the gap.
“I agree with you,” he said with weighty dullness. “I agree with you that some sort of accident strikes one as extremely likely. You mentioned that a special had been chartered to bring your friend to London. That would indicate that he was a person of consequence.”
“He was.”
The words sounded like an epitaph. They were spoken with the impatience of a door being banged.