She wrenched herself free—free from arms which had seemed to be closing like a vice round her, away from lips whose very proximity seemed to scorch. She staggered through the door. As she stood there on the deck, the light flashed out again, and Gregory, suddenly, it seemed, almost calm, stood upon the threshold, a courteous but sardonic farewell upon his lips.
“Good night,” he said. “You realise now, perhaps, what it is for a man to live with so evil a thing.”
She swayed as she neared the companionway and steadied herself in her descent by the banisters. When she reached her room she locked the door behind her and threw herself upon the bed.—Gregory had moved back into his stateroom. His fist, hard and clenched, was within a few inches of the leering mouth.
“You damned swine!” he exclaimed, with all his calmness gone, a hoarse fury breaking his voice. “You—you accursed spirit!”
His voice suddenly failed. An overpowering impulse seized him. He took the Image into his arms, rushed through the open door across the deck, and leaned over the rail.
“Find your own hell!” he shouted, and dashed it downwards.
CHAPTER VIII
In the morning Gregory awoke after a wonderfully sound sleep. It was still very early. There was a delightful pearly light in the sky, visible through his open porthole. The glitter of the barely risen sun lay faint upon the ocean. He remained for a few minutes, breathing quietly, trying to recall the events of the night before. They came back to him with a shock, followed by an immense sense of relief. He remembered what he had done without a thought of regret. He had cast away the fruits of his enterprise, the possibility of wealth, and he was full of rejoicing. In those few seconds of glad thought, the world seemed a different place, wealth, after all, but a trifling part of its joys, youth and love suddenly great and wonderful things. A clearer light seemed to be pouring in upon some possible future, a new atmosphere of happiness encircling him. He sprang out of bed. He would have an early bath and send a note round to Claire. She must forgive. She must understand. She must realise the sacrifice he had made. Then, as he reached for his dressing gown, he felt as though he were turned to stone. Up on its accustomed place, its eyes meeting his, its lips mocking him, was the Image. He stood looking at it, for once genuinely terrified. Then he pressed the bell feverishly, and stood there with his thumb upon the knob until Perkins came running in.
“Where the hell did that come from?” he demanded, pointing to the Image.
Perkins smiled with the air of one who imparts good tidings.