"None that would go so far as to desire my death. No my friend, the letter was from the charming Maltese, and she'll carry out her purpose if she can."
"Is she in Valletta?"
"I don't know; if she is, and find me out, well--I may reach England alive, but I doubt it; and after all I don't think I'd care much: I'm sick of life, and if one could be only certain that death is an eternal sleep--well," with a sneer, "I think I'd be inclined for the nap; but come," rising to his feet, "I've bored you enough for one night, let us go into the smoking-room and have one pipe before turning in."
Ronald assented, and walked slowly after Ventin, wondering at the strange story he had heard, and at the strange man who told it to him.
"He's had a queer life," mused Monteith as they stepped into the smoking-room. "I wonder if his end will be as queer."
The dance being over all the ladies had gone below, the electric lights were out in the saloon and on deck, and only the smoking-room was lighted up for the benefit of the night-birds. Here they all came flushed and excited with their exercise, and soon all the marble-topped tables were covered with glasses containing different beverages from whisky-and-soda down to a modest squash, while the atmosphere resembled nothing so much as a London fog. Ventin had recovered his spirits, and told stories, made epigrams, and sang songs, until Ronald could hardly believe he saw before him the same man who had told him such a pitiful story.
Ventin saw his friend's eyes directed curiously at him once or twice, and guessing the meaning of his looks, came up to him to say "Good-night."
"I've put on the cap and bells, you see," he said, cynically; "broken hearts are not in favour with the world, and life is only a masquerade after all."