They talked, or rather Power talked and Dacre listened, till a clock struck twelve somewhere. Carriages began to roll along the neighboring avenues, and lamps occasionally flitted past the hotel. Two or three vivacious groups crossed the veranda, and a porter turned on a lamp. Then Power found that his English friend had placed their chairs in a sort of alcove formed by a disused doorway flanked on each hand by a huge palm growing in a wooden tub which held a ton of earth, or more; so they were well screened.
“You meant to force me to confess,” he said, smiling.
“Yes. It might have been merely folly on your part.”
“But now?”
“Now it is Fate’s own contriving. You don’t want to escape; but you couldn’t if you did. Or, that is awkwardly put. What I mean is——”
Dacre’s meaning was clear enough; but he never completed the sentence. A cab, laden with luggage, drove up, and a slightly built, elderly man alighted.
“This the Ocean House?” he inquired, when a porter hurried forward.
“Yes, sir,” and the man took a portmanteau from the driver.
“Hold on, there! I’m not sure I shall want a room. How far is ‘The Breakers’ from here, Mrs. Marten’s house?”
“Quite a ways,” said the cabman. “Two miles an’ a bit.”