“Then there's an item in the local paper which should interest you. It has to do with Prince Rogovich, the great Polish patriot. He was your fellow passenger, if I'm not mistaken.”
Hindwood was disinclined for conversation. He made his tone brusk that he might discourage further questions. “You're not mistaken, and I guess I know what you're going to tell me: that after all the preparations made for his reception, the Prince didn't land at Plymouth but, without notifying any one, traveled on either to Boulogne or Rotterdam.”
“But that wasn't what I was going to tell you,” the old gentleman continued in his benevolent pulpit manner. “Oh, no, I was going to tell you something quite different. After the Ryndam left Plymouth, the Captain had her searched from stem to stern. Not a trace of the Prince could be found.”
“Extraordinary! I suppose the news was received by wireless. Does the paper suggest an explanation?”
“None whatsoever. I thought you'd be interested. Perhaps you'd like to read for yourself.”
The paper contained the bare fact as the clergyman had stated it. “A complete search was made. All his personal belongings were found intact, but of the Prince himself not a trace.”
Hindwood closed his eyes and pretended to sleep that he might protect himself from further intrusions. He wanted to argue his way through this problem and to acquit Santa of any share in what had happened. And yet, if an investigation were held and he himself had to tell all he knew, things would look black for her. Was that why——?
He tried to crush the ugly thought, but it clamored to be expressed. Was that why she had made love to him—that her kiss might seal his lips with silence?
The train was slowing down. He opened his eyes. In the cheerfulness of sunshine life took on a more normal aspect. Towering above crowded roofs of houses, a tall cathedral pricked the blueness of the sky.
“Where are we?”