That was all that passed between them at the time; but two days later his hand was clasping hers as the steamer went past the Heads into the loveliest harbour of the world.
It was very early in the morning when he left his cabin to go on deck. The yacht was swinging at anchor. The sound of many voices came from the deck.
She was waiting to receive him at the door of his cabin. He put both his hands out to her: she did not take even one of them. She stared at him.
“I suppose you are the greatest scoundrel in the world,” she said.
“Viola—dearest!”
“I say you are the greatest scoundrel that ever lived, for you tried to obtain my love by telling me a lie—a lie—a horrible lie. You did not murder Jack Norgate. He fell overboard by accident that night, when no one was near him, and he was picked up by the ocean tramp which you had been watching—not beside him, but on the bridge. You are a wicked man. You told me that you murdered him, but you did nothing of the sort. There he is, coming toward us. I did not tell him how false you were, and I do not intend to tell him; but I know it for myself.”
“It was you yourself who suggested the thing to me,” said he. “Did you not come to me accusing me of having murdered him? Did you not say that it had been revealed to you in a vision?”
“A vision? Oh, I was in need of a dose of bromide—that’s all,” said she.
Then Jack Norgate came up with the captain by his side. The hand that Mr Somers offered him was limp and clammy.