“What has it got to do with you, at any rate?” snapped Seymour Michael.
“Nothing,” replied Ruthine, looking across at Agar.
“You did not tell Dora Glynde?”
General Michael shrugged his shoulders.
“Why?” asked Jem hoarsely. It was singular, that sudden hoarseness, and the Doctor, whose business such things were, made a note of it.
“I didn't dare to do it. Why, man, it was too dangerous to tell a single soul. If it had leaked out you would have been murdered up there as sure as hell. There would have been plenty of men ready to do it for half-a-crown.”
“That was my business,” answered Jem coolly. “You promised, you swore, that you would tell Dora Glynde, my step-mother, and my brother Arthur. And you didn't do it. Why?”
“I have given you my reasons—it was too dangerous. Besides, what does it matter? It is all over now.”
“No,” said Jem, “not yet.”
The clock struck nine at that moment; and from the harbour came the sound of the ship's bells, high and clear, sounding the hour. The Hoe was quite deserted; these three men were alone. A silence followed the ringing of the bells, like the silence that precedes a verdict.