“I saw the two of them coming back,” a lady announced. “They passed right by my chair. The smaller man was fearfully wobbly at the knees and he seemed dazed. He talked thick, like a drunken man, and he smelled horridly of whisky. Of course that’s what the doctor had given him to revive him. He mumbled and talked foolishly. If I hadn’t been told I’d have taken him for an intoxicated person.”
This clear description of Walter came to Mrs. Wells with the cruelty of a shock; but she did not utter a sound, or move a muscle. Rigidly she watched the speaker, but Geraldine saw the colour fade from her face, and her heart beat in pity.
Summoning her energies, Mrs. Wells rose slowly and moved towards the companion-way. At the top of the swaying stairs she pulled herself together, and went straight to Richard’s room and knocked.
Richard opened the door softly, peered out and let his face lighten up at the sight of Mrs. Wells.
“Come in!” he whispered, but in the tone of gay mystery. “Walter’s taking a nap. Come in!”
She looked into the room. Walter was sleeping soundly, thanks to the doctor’s morphine.
“No,” she said.
“Can I do anything?” he inquired; “pull out steamer-trunks, open a port-hole or—mix you a glass of orange juice?”
His cheerfulness assured her. It was not Walter, after all.
“Nothing, thank you,” she said. “Just passing by and thought I’d tap and see if you were at home. I’ve missed you. Why did you run away from me this afternoon?”