"Twelve o'clock, Anna. Nothing can be done to-night. And the rain—listen to it."
Anna sat silent for a moment gazing out through the blurred panes at the inky blackness beyond. The rain lashed the windows like a shower of sand, and the waves breaking on the shore below voiced a distant monotony. Edward was right, nothing could be done at once, except to go to bed and get what rest one might against the morrow.
Left alone, Povey took out the telegram he had been reading and had hastily thrust into his jacket pocket on the entrance of the servant. He smoothed it out on a little table. It was from the Duc de Choleaux Lasuer, and as Edward read it again he told himself that he was nearing the end of his tribulations.
He had been rather averse to showing the cable to Anna. She knew nothing of the affection, if it can be called only that, which existed between Galva and the duke, or if she had noticed it in Paris it had long ago left her memory. Edward doubted whether she would think it wise, this calling in of a stranger to their affairs.
The message was quite brief, and stated simply that the sender had reached Spain and was leaving by the boat which was due to arrive at Port Corbo at nine that evening. Edward had waited anxiously in the rain until the harbour master had told him that the heavy weather had delayed the sturdy little vessel, which acted as passenger, cargo and mail steamer between the island and the mainland. The man had said that she had not yet passed the Point at the arm of the bay where the alternate red and white flashes of the distant lighthouse showed dimly through the driving rain. Edward had learnt that she could not berth before two in the morning, and he had returned to the Villa for refreshment and dry clothes.
At one o'clock he quietly ascertained that Anna had retired for the night, then, putting on a long mackintosh, crept from the house and started on the mile or more walk to the dock side. The rain had now nearly ceased, and the esplanade lay a glistening line of wet asphalt in front of him, in which the arc lamps threw a clean reflection. The wind still blew in fitful gusts, scattering the raindrops from the leaves of the trees that bordered the pavement.
The promenade was deserted, save for a few waiting motor-cars and carriages outside the Casino. From time to time a whistle would call one of these up to the entrance, and Edward would catch a glimpse of black-coated men holding umbrellas over the dainty figures of lightly cloaked women who, with skirts well bunched up over slender ankles and high-heeled shoes, made a dash for the carriage door.
And here and there were shuffling figures edging along in the shadows. These were the denizens of the hinterland of Corbo, night-birds who crept out to the fashionable haunts in the dark hours, bent on plunder, or perhaps the honest earning of a little of the money which was being so freely spent there.
Past the Opera House and the gardens the way became darker. The arc lamps became further apart, and the few cafés that were still open showed sleepy waiters standing moodily behind the great plate-glass windows, waiting for the stragglers to depart.
As Edward walked on he thought of the coming interview, debating within himself whether or no he should acquaint the new arrival with the true state of affairs. He felt that the secret was not altogether his own, and now that he had heard from Galva that she was safe and in no immediate danger, he said that there was no need to act hurriedly. He rather wished, in fact, that he had not been so hasty in writing. The duke would be useful certainly, but he complicated matters.