Mary jumped to her feet with a sense of confusion. There was no doubt that the large figure emerging out of the darkness was that of Bill Marshall. How was she to explain the valet?
"Oh, hello!" said Bill as he identified her. "Waiting here all alone, eh? Well, that's a darn shame. Hasn't the launch—oh!" He discovered the presence of Pete Stearns. "Didn't know you had company," he added, his tone altering. "Beg your pardon."
"I—I haven't," said Mary, defiantly.
"I'll see if there's any sign of the launch." Bill walked to the end of the wharf, where he stood staring at the river, raging with and almost bursting with questions that he scorned to ask.
"Why didn't you explain to him?" snapped Mary, whirling upon Pete.
"I pass the question back to you, miss." And Pete lighted a cigarette, the glow of the match illuminating for an instant a pair of eyes that were regarding her with unveiled amusement.
When the launch came, after an uncomfortably long interval, Bill helped her into it, with cold courtesy. The valet scrambled aboard and took himself off to the bow. All the way to the Sunshine the three sat in silence—Bill smoldering with anger and curiosity, Mary humiliated and resentful, Pete content because they were as they were.
The social secretary hastened to her stateroom as soon as she stepped aboard; she did not pause to speak to Aunt Caroline, who was dozing in her chair. Pete disappeared with like alacrity. It remained for Bill to arouse his aunt and suggest that it was time for her to retire.
"But Mrs. Rokeby-Jones?" asked Aunt Caroline.
"Had her on the wire; she can't come," said Bill. "Says she wrote a note, but it must have gone astray. Very sorry and all that sort of thing."