"What's that?" Runnells was at the end of the letter now. He stared at the bandaged face with eyes a little narrowed, and with lips that twisted in a strange, speculative smile.
"A fidelity of the same uninitiative quality that a dog has," said Captain Francis Newcombe, motioning for more to eat. "And in that sphere you're a success. I hope you'll always stick to it."
Runnells made no answer. His eyes were on the letter again—re-reading it.
The lunch proceeded in silence.
At its conclusion, Runnells stood up, slipped the letter behind the pillow again, and gathered the various dishes together on the tray.
"America, eh?" confided Runnells to himself, as he carried the tray from the room. "So that's the bit of all right, is it? And Paul don't know anything about it! And the captain don't know—I know! Half a million dollars! Strike me pink!"
—VI—
THE WRITING ON THE WALL
It was a night of storm. The rain, wind driven, swept the decks in gusty, stinging sheets; the big liner rolled and pitched, disgruntled, in the heavy sea.