Petro aroused him an hour later—and still with that curious passivity Allard allowed himself to be cared for, measured, respectfully consulted. He even found himself ordering the old dishes for breakfast, specifying the old hour of service. And with the once familiar comfort came more restfulness.
Much later he came a second time to the round window and opened it to the rain and darkness. The April wind passed chill fingers among the boyish curls still warm from the bath, the tiny cold drops sprinkled the throat from which the departed Dancla's silken dressing-gown fell back, but Allard felt nothing. And suddenly his head sank on his arm.
"Desmond," he breathed, "I can forgive you, now. Can you hear out there, Desmond?"
The yacht slipped on through the mist, monotonously, steadily.
CHAPTER V
THE NEW DAY
The morning sunlight penetrated the room riotously, merrily defying the azure silk and lace muffling the windows, glinting in every polished surface and running golden-footed from point to point. Lying tranquilly among his pillows, Allard watched the man busied in folding and laying away a multitudinous array of garments, placing gloves and handkerchiefs in drawers and arranging toilet articles.
"You are not Petro," Allard remarked finally.
The man started and turned.