"What the devil are you talking about, Jewson? And what's that?"
It was a small brown-paper parcel which the steward had produced.
"Something you're going to be so kind as to post and register in Melbourne, sir. In Melbourne, mind—not in London, Captain Devenish!"
"But it's addressed—why, damme, it's addressed to Miss Merridew!"
"I know that, sir."
"Who addressed it?"
"The clever bloke who thinks he's going to marry her," answered Jewson through his artificial teeth. "Clever he may be," he added, "and successful he is, but he ain't so clever that he's going to succeed in that!"
Devenish took heart from the cunning and confident face raised so slyly to his. Yet his heart of hearts sank within him, for it was still not utterly debased, and his compact with this ruffian was a heaviness to him. "What do you mean by asking me to post his presents to her?" he demanded angrily; but his anger was due less to the request than to the underlying subtlety which he felt he had far better not seek to probe.
"I'm not going to tell you, Captain Devenish. You said you'd leave it to me, sir."
"But it is something from him to her?"