John Saltram looked eagerly among the faces of the crowd, but neither Percival Nowell nor his daughter were to be seen amongst them. Presently the vessel touched the wharf, and the travellers began to move towards the gangway. He watched them, one by one, breathlessly. At the very last, Mr. Nowell stepped quickly forward, with a veiled figure on his arm.
She was closely veiled, her face quite hidden by thick black lace, and she was clinging with something of a frightened air to her companion's arm.
John Saltram sprang up from his post of observation, and confronted the two before they could leave the vessel.
"Marian," he said, in slow decided tone, "let go that man's arm. You will leave this vessel with me, and with no one else."
"Stand out of the way, fellow," cried Percival Nowell; "my daughter can have nothing to say to you."
"Marian, for God's sake, obey me! There is the vilest treachery in this man's conduct. Let go his arm. My love, my darling, come with me!"
There was a passionate appeal in his tone, but it produced no answer.
"Marian!" he cried, still interposing himself between these two and the passage to the landing wharf. "Marian, I will have some answer!"
"You have had your answer, sir," said Percival Nowell, trying to push him aside. "This lady does not know you. Do you want to make a scene, and render yourself ridiculous to every one here? There are plenty of lunatic asylums in New York that will accommodate you, if you are determined to make yourself eligible for them."
"Marian!" repeated John Saltram, without vouchsafing the faintest notice of this speech. "Marian, speak to me!"