“Not to get drunk.”
“I heard him swear that the worry with the boilers was enough to drive any man to drink,” Sterne said maliciously.
Massy hissed out something about bursting the door in. Mr. Van Wyk, to avoid them, crossed in the dark to the other side of the deserted deck. The planking of the little wharf rattled faintly under his hasty feet.
“Mr. Van Wyk! Mr. Van Wyk!”
He walked on: somebody was running on the path. “You’ve forgotten to get your mail.”
Sterne, holding a bundle of papers in his hand, caught up with him.
“Oh, thanks.”
But, as the other continued at his elbow, Mr. Van Wyk stopped short. The overhanging eaves, descending low upon the lighted front of the bungalow, threw their black straight-edged shadow into the great body of the night on that side. Everything was very still. A tinkle of cutlery and a slight jingle of glasses were heard. Mr. Van Wyk’s servants were laying the table for two on the veranda.
“I’m afraid you give me no credit whatever for my good intentions in the matter I’ve spoken to you about,” said Sterne.
“I simply don’t understand you.”