“That was thoughtful of you,” broke in Power, half in sarcasm; for he was vastly irritated that he had not contrived affairs more discreetly, and half in genuine recognition of Dacre’s tact.
“The thinking came later,” said the Englishman slowly. “When all is said and done, a little dinner à l’Italienne might pass by way of a joke—a harmless escapade at the best, or worst. But, when I reach my hotel and find a note announcing that the man is leaving Newport unexpectedly, and when I hear at the Casino that the woman also is arranging to meet her father in New York, with equal unexpectedness, I am inclined to ask the man, he being something more than a mere acquaintance, if there is not a very reasonable probability that he is making a damned fool of himself. Now, are we going to discuss this thing rationally, or do you want to hit me with a heavy siphon? If the latter, kindly change your mind, and let’s talk about the next race for the America’s Cup.”
Here no solemn diapason of wave and shingle relieved an unnerving silence. Not even the distant rumble of a vehicle broke the tension. The hour was late for ordinary traffic, early for diners and dancers. A deep hush lay on the hotel and its garden. It was so dark that the street lamps, twinkling few and far between the trees, appeared to diffuse no larger area of light than so many fireflies.
“Are we alone here?” said Power, speaking only when an uneasy movement on Dacre’s part bestirred him.
“Yes. I saw to that when I heard your cab. I timed you to a nicety.”
“You must be experienced in these matters.”
“I have been most sorts of an idiot in my time.”
“You are quite sure we are not overheard?”
“As sure as a man can be of anything.”
“Then I recognize your right to question me. Tonight you, tomorrow all Newport, will know what has happened——”