"Good-night!" he exclaimed. "Good-night! Why, surely, I may accompany you part of the way at least? I always do so when we are any distance from your home."
"No," she answered, "no. Go back at once to your yacht. At once, I say, and get on board her. Oh! if you did but know the terror I am in for your safety."
"Barbara!" he exclaimed. "Barbara! Why! it is a dream, a fantasy----"
"No," she said, "no. It is no dream, no fantasy. For my sake, for my sake, I beseech you--go back and make yourself secure. Believe me, I know him!" and she turned as though to run up the slight ascent.
"For your sake, then, I will," he said. "For your sake. We will meet to-morrow. Good-night, Barbara." Then he suddenly asked, anxiously--"But you--there is no danger to you?"
"No! no! Good-night," she said, "God keep you. Oh! this dread is terrible," and then, giving him a sign to go without further loss of time, she sped up the path.
He did not share at all in Barbara's dread of her brother, perhaps because he was a man, and, perhaps, also, because he had not been used to witnessing years of violence on that brother's part; indeed, he believed her terrors to be purely feminine--the terrors that many women feel in all parts of the world for that worst of despots, the domestic tyrant. But being neither vain nor conceited, he did not for one moment associate those terrors with any regard she had allowed herself to conceive for him, nor, thereby, make allowances for them in that way. Indeed, he had very little idea that she regarded him as anything more than a stranger, who, by the peculiar knowledge he possessed of the buried wealth, was far more interesting than the few tourists were who sometimes visited Coffin Island. Yet he forgot she allowed him to call her Barbara, while always herself addressing him with formality.
He was not, however, so foolhardy as to neglect a caution given him by one who was not only interested in him but, also, thoroughly well acquainted with the scheming and violently dangerous nature of Joseph Alderly. He therefore, on regaining the deck of the Pompeia, took such precautions as were possible. He drew up the little dinghy from the water and placed it on the deck parallel with the port side, and, when he entered his cabin, he was careful to leave the door open so that any outside sounds from either the river or the banks would be plainly heard.
Then--since there was no more to be done--he went into the cabin and, mixing himself some whisky and water, prepared to watch as long as he could keep his eyes open, making one sacrifice to the supposed necessity for a caution in so far that he decided not to lie down during the night.
"There is nothing else to do," he reflected; "hardly any danger to ward off. He can't make such an attack on me as I suggested his ancestor, Simon, would very likely have done, and there is no other way possible, for he cannot get on board without my knowing it, and, if he could, I am as good a man as he!"