"Yes."
Their mutual inclination led them toward the fore-deck. In the bow, beyond a monster coil of rope, they halted as with one accord. He stood looking out over the blue-black sea; she backward, across decks, at the huge funnels where smoke piled upward into darkness.
"Miss Charteris," he began, quite calmly, "I daresay you know why I asked for a word with you."
She was still watching the smoke. "I daresay I do," she replied, not so calmly.
He went on.
"I'm going to be frank—even abrupt. Will you tell me what you threw overboard last night?"
Silence followed. The big ship throbbed, but it seemed far away, part of another world; in his sphere there was but the girl, himself and the stars. He thought he saw her shiver—although it was not chilly.
Finally she spoke.
"Before I answer, there's something I must say. You are frank; I, too, will be frank." Her eyes shifted to his face. "I feel sure you're aware that I am not so stupid as to believe your name is Tavernake—or that you are a—a jeweller. Furthermore, you know I saw you in uniform in Benares. Your story about the brother was—rather flat." She smiled faintly. "I'm no child, Mr.—yes, I'll continue to call you Tavernake. I have imagination; I have guessed you are engaged in some sort of important work—work that you must not be distracted from. At first, I didn't care—particularly—or perhaps I was weak. So I let myself drift along. It's so easy to drift, isn't it?"
A new tone had come into her voice; a softer, more poignant quality. It carried to him a lofty exhilaration. He knew it was dangerous, yet, for the while, it thrilled him. The looming masts beyond the coil of rope were transformed, in his eyes, into the enchanted rigging of a dream ship.