She was gone! He stood there in a numbed way. She was gone! He could not seem to realise that. Go back! Go back—and leave Marie-Louise! Only that one thing was clear out of his dazed and staggered consciousness. He would not go back! He would never go back! To-morrow, ay and the to-morrows all through life, Marie-Louise would find him there!
He raised his head suddenly, and turned and looked behind him. High above on that upper deck there seemed a strange confusion—and on the moment, from the bridge shrilled out an officer's whistle. Then, from deep down within the ship, the engine-room bell sounded in a muffled clang; and an instant later dark forms were scurrying around one of the lifeboats; and now there were shouts, the creak of tackle—and the vibration of the ship was gone.
He moved back along the deck to stand close below the rail of the main deck where, oblivious to the damp and wet now, the passengers in low-necked gowns, in evening dress, the dance forgotten, were crowding, jostling and pushing each other in mad excitement.
A dozen voices spoke at once.
"Somebody has fallen overboard! ... Who is it? ... Who is it? ... How did it happen? ... Who is it? ... Who is it?..."
Jean's brows gathered in perplexed, strained furrows. Myrna and Monsieur Bliss had made their discovery of course, that was evident; but to stop the ship, to lower a boat when it was obviously absurd, when they had every reason to assume that his body by then must be miles astern! What was the meaning of that?
The ship was silent, still, motionless now, save for the tumult of the excited passengers; the lifeboat dropped into the water and rowed away—and then a queer smile flickered on Jean's lips. Ah, yes! It was Myrna—mistress of every situation! Her fiancé as a suicide was impossible; an accident of course was quite another thing—that was only deplorable! She and her father had influence enough with the captain, in whom no doubt they had confided what they believed to be the truth, to induce him to carry out, for the benefit of the passengers and all else on board, the semblance of accident, and the attempt at rescue; and, besides, as far as the captain was concerned, was it not the great Laparde, the most famous of his passengers, who was involved—whose name was to be preserved from infamy and dishonour? He shrugged his shoulders. What story had that clever brain of Myrna's devised to fit the case? Had she seen the accident itself?
"Who is it? ... Who is it?" cried the passengers above him. "How did it happen? ... Who is it? ... Who is it?..."
And then a voice above the others, breathless with importance:
"It was Jean Laparde! He was up on the deck above with Mr. and Miss Bliss. He dropped his cigarette-holder, it rolled across the deck and went outside the rail, where the boats are, you know, and the ship lurched as he stooped to pick it up, and—"