Morgan’s wide black eyes blinked swiftly once or twice. “Yes,” said she, and closed her mouth and sat composedly watching, as before.
Murch’s whole figure relaxed, and he slowly drew himself upright. Then he nodded again, two or three times, very solemnly.
“I notice, Mr Pomfrett,” said he, “that you have not, at present, made any reference to myself in this matter.”
“Do you wonder at that, Mr Murch?” said Brandon.
“Ah,” said Mr Murch. “Hasty, hasty—hot and hasty, Mr Pomfrett, never got to church. If I am willing to forget the past, sir, surely you should be. I would have marooned you for reasons of my own, which figure well enough in the account betwixt my Maker and myself, let me tell you. But you have stolen away my ward, Mr Pomfrett—you took advantage of the ignorance and credulity of an innocent girl, unused to the world’s ways.”
“Let it go at that, uncle,” Morgan put in. “You’ll not better it. Cry quits, now.”
Murch was just a hair taken aback. “Here’s too much talk altogether,” he cried roughly. “Come. Yea or nay, and be done. Will you sail to-night for England, Mr Pomfrett?”
“With you?”
“Under me,” Mr Murch corrected him.
Pomfrett glanced at Morgan Leroux. There was no mistaking the look in her eyes.