“I ask your pardon, again,” began the young man. “But the fact is—”
The small white hand went up once more and waved back the words.
“I repeat,” she said, “that you are still in time. However, it would have been much better if you had come earlier. The ship reached port some seven or eight hours ago; and there could have been nothing to detain you.”
Kenyon bent his brows, and looked puzzled.
“What ship do you refer to?” he asked.
“The Blenheim,” came the prompt answer. Her eyes were searching his face intently; even the thick veil could not hide the fact that they were big, dark, and lustrous. “That was the ship, was it not?”
“It was,” answered Kenyon, and the puzzled look grew deeper.
“He is very low,” the girl continued, “and he is very anxious to see you.”
A number of people stood about. Those who overheard were beginning to stare; and as this could not be endured, Kenyon entered the hansom. Instantly the driver called to his horse; the vehicle went rattling along Thirty-sixth Street, heading east, and Kenyon settled back by the girl’s side, smiling his astonishment into the darkness.