“He come in a boat from the shore, monsieur. Just now. He wait only an answer to zis lettaire.” The man bowed and retired, leaving Brett and Cara staring at each other.
“You would not have come between Eliot and Ann, after all,” she said proudly. “Your trick would have misfired. He trusts her—absolutely.”
She had hardly finished speaking when the sound of a scuffle came from the companion-way, accompanied by a stream of voluble French. Then: “Get out of my way!” came in good, robust English, and an instant later Eliot’s big frame appeared in the doorway.
“I want an explanation, Forrester—” he began sternly. Then fell silent, while his senses quietly absorbed the whole scene before him—the man and woman in evening dress, the flower-decked table with its half-emptied coffee-cups and evidences of a recent gay little supper, the mingled scent of cigarette smoke and carnations. Last of all, his glance, cold and contemptuous, swept over Cara’s white face.
He gave a short laugh.
“Bradley misled me,” he observed coolly. “There’s no one here in whom I’m interested.” For a moment his eyes—accusing, utterly scornful—met and held Cara’s. Then he looked across at Brett. “I understood you were alone, Forrester. I regret my intrusion.” With a curt bow he was gone.
As the door closed behind him Cara sank down mutely into her chair. She gazed wearily in front of her. There was no need to ask herself what Eliot thought. It had been written plainly in his eyes.
Presently she turned her head and looked across at Brett.
“Well?” she said tonelessly. “I hope you’re satisfied. I don’t think you need bother any more about—punishing me.”
The savage anger had died out of his face. He was regarding her with an odd look of surprise. There had been no mistaking the anguish of her expression as she had grasped Eliot’s swift and cruel interpretation of the scene. She had looked like a woman on the rack.