Pen and Don left alone on deck, leaned over the rail and pressing their shoulders together, gazed down at the black water etched with phosphorescence where the little waves lapped against the vessel's side and rolled back again.
"I love you," Don whispered. "Whatever happens, you have made life to me worth living."
Pen caught her breath. "Ah, don't speak," she murmured. "Or I sha'n't ... be able to go through with it."
They groped for each other's hands.
They had not to wait long. They saw Riever coming through the lighted deck saloon before he could see them. The watchman accompanied him, and another man, a sort of valet-bodyguard. Riever was wearing a gorgeous orange and blue flowered dressing-gown. His face looked puffier than by day, but his thin hair was carefully brushed. He had an expression of oddly strained eagerness.
As they came through the door, one of the men turned a switch and the deck was flooded with light. Riever's sharpened gaze flew first to Pen's face, and from Pen to Don. For a fraction of a second he did not recognize him, but Don grinned, and said coolly:
"Hello, Ernest!"
Then he knew. His face became convulsed. "Counsell!" he cried in a high strained voice. He whirled on the watchman. "Blow your whistle! Rouse the ship!"
The shrill, wailing sound pierced the night.
Half beside himself Riever cried to Don: "You fox! I've run you to earth at last!"