There were twenty questions which might be asked, but staring at the flimsy bit of paper, with its jerky lettering, would not answer any of them. And the issue called for instant decision. Already, in obedience to a signal from Stump, men were standing by the fixed capstans on the mole ready to cast off the yacht's hawsers. Perhaps Sir Henry Royson was dying? Even in that unlikely event, of what avail was a title with nothing a year? Certainly, the solicitor's cautious telegram might be construed into an offer of financial aid. That reading implied a more cheerful view than he had taken hitherto of his prospects with regard to the Cuddesham estate. Yet, the only way in which he could meet Mr. Forbes's wishes was to spring ashore then and there, if such a proceeding were practicable, and abandon the adventure whose strange by-ways were already opening up before his mind's eye.
Then Irene said sympathetically:
"I hope you have not received any bad news, Mr.—Royson."
The captain's pause before addressing him by his real name was intended to be ironical. Not so the girl's hesitancy. Interpreting Dick's mood with her woman's intuition, she felt that he wished to drop any subterfuge now, no matter what his motive might have been in adopting one hitherto.
Her voice broke the spell which the telegram, with its curious phrasing, had cast on him.
"No, Miss Fenshawe, not bad news, certainly. Indeed, it was the absence of any sort of news that troubled me for a moment. Chasseur!"
"Oui, m'sieu'," and the messenger raised his hat.
"Voila!" Dick threw him a franc. "Il n'a pas de reponse."
"Merci bien, m'sieu'."
That spinning of a coin through the air showed that Royson had made up his mind. He had tossed with Fortune, and cared not who won.