“Ever see Madame Butterfly? he asked abruptly.
“Yes.”
Atherton blew another big cloud of smoke.
“Damn fool, Pinkerton,” he said gruffly, “Never could see the attraction myself—dancing girls—almond eyes—and all that sort of thing.”
Craven made no answer but his whistling stopped suddenly and the knuckles of his clasped hands whitened. Atherton looked away quickly and his eyeglass fell with a little tinkle against a waistcoat button. There was another long pause. Finally the music died away and the stillness was broken only by the soft slap-slap of the water against the ship's side.
Atherton scowled at his immaculate deck shoes and then seized his eyeglass again decisively.
“Say, Barry, you saved my life in the Rockies that trip and I guess a fellow whose life you've saved has a pull on you no one else has. Anyhow I'll chance it, and if I'm a damned interfering meddler it's up to you to say so and I'll apologise—handsomely. Are you in a hole?”
Craven got up, walked away to the side of the yacht and leaning on the rail stared down into the water. A solitary sampan was passing the broad streak of moonlight and he watched it intently until it passed and merged into the shadows beyond.
“I've been the usual fool,” he said at last quietly.
“Oh, hell!” came softly from behind him. “Chuck it, Barry. Clear out right now—with us. I'll put off sailing until tomorrow.”