Varney grinned. "Remember yesterday, Peter?—when you were coming back at ten o'clock and came at four? No more unlimited contracts from me. It is twenty minutes past one now. You can get in by two thirty if you hustle. I must start in by half-past four. It wouldn't be safe to wait any longer."
"Give me a show, will you? Make it five, anyway."
"Five, then. If you're not back on the dot, in I start for my call. Till we meet again."
Peter started down the stair, hesitated, turned and came back again. "Larry," he said, with sudden gruffness, "of course, we 've both been thinking that if it hadn't been for me, none of this mess would have happened. I kick myself when I think—"
"Drop it, Peter. Nobody in the world could have foreseen—"
"Every ass in the United States," said Maginnis, his ponderous foot on the ladder, "could have foreseen it but me. I just want you to know that politics is absolutely sidetracked now. Before I'll let this deal of ours fall through, I'll see Hare licked till they can't scrape him together afterward with a fine-tooth comb."
It was deadly quiet on the yacht after Peter left. At two o'clock Varney went down to a solitary luncheon. At quarter past, followed by the reproachful gaze of McTosh, he came out again. In the pit of his stomach reposed a great emptiness, but it was not hunger. He felt restless, high-strung, all made of nerves. He wanted to do something of a violent, physical sort, the more grueling the better; and his task was to loll in an easy-chair under a pretty awning and inspect the landscape.
The port side of the Cypriani was jammed as close into the island as the science of navigation made possible. Varney went over to the other side and sat down to wait. In front of him, a hundred yards away, the western bank rose abruptly from the water's edge, reaching here and there to loftiness. There were woods upon it, thick and silent, which looked as if the defiling hand of man had never entered there. At his back was the still, empty little island; at either side stretched the deserted river.
He thought it as lonely a spot as could have been found in a day's journey, but a moment later he discovered his mistake. It was suddenly borne in upon him that the tall, thin object which nestled so closely among the trees a mile to the south that it was scarcely distinguishable from them, was in reality the spire of some church; and he knew that he was much closer to his kind than he had thought.
And then, in time, he noticed other things. Before a great while, he saw a boat with one person in it—a woman he thought—put out from the shore at about where the village must be and start across to the other bank. And later, as the afternoon wore on, he caught sight of a canoe, a few hundred yards upstream, rocking idly down with the current. An elderly-looking man sat in it, with a short brown beard and sun-goggles showing under his soft hat—for the water burned under a brilliant sky—stolidly fishing and reading a book. He looked like a rusticating college professor—of Greek, say—and this theory seemed to be supported by his obvious ignorance as to how to keep a canoe on the popular side of the water.