When the Sea Gives Up Its Dead: A Thrilling Detective Story

by Mrs. George Corbett

“The little fool has seen that the artist is more in my line, and is jealous,” he mused. “But what of that? She can’t harm me, though she may make things deucedly uncomfortable for me here. Query, will it really pay me to break with her? That remains to be seen. I’m by no means sure that Miss Stratton has money that I can secure, or that it would be as good a prospect to take up with her as to settle down here, with Phœbe to keep me. I think I must retain both irons in the fire for a few days longer. Stratton is so awfully infatuated that she will be only too glad to condone a flirtation with Phœbe.”

In pursuance of this train of thought, Mr. Staines became very solicitous about Mrs. Dollman’s state of health, smiled quite tenderly at her, suggested that she should lie down to compose her nerves, and offered to take all the labours of carving off her hands. But it was not in Phœbe’s nature to restrain her feelings, and when he accidentally touched her hand in taking the carving-knife from her, she sprang away from him with such an agony of horror and repulsion in her face, that he could no longer doubt her real sentiments towards him, and everyone at the table could see that there was more beneath the surface than met the eye. As for Gregory Staines, he was thunderstruck, although he was able to keep both his actions and his facial expression under admirable control.

“She has been told something about me,” was his savage inward comment. “Somebody has betrayed me, and the little idiot has been made the sharer of a secret that she cannot keep. Betrayal means enmity, and the presence of a betrayal argues the near proximity of an enemy. I have but one enemy whom I need fear, and she has been cleverly put off the scent. And, yet, who knows? The devil himself must be in her, for she has followed and traced me to all sorts of places, and why not here? Good God! I never thought of it! Surely it can’t be this woman who has flung herself at my head as if I were the God of Love in the flesh? But, after all, even if it were, what can she do to me? She dare not move openly, for no plans for my arrest can be made effectual on Spanish territory. If she has really traced me, I am safe for to-day, at all events. I must meet her with her own weapons, and if I find that Miss Stratton and my arch-enemy are one and the same, may the Lord have mercy on her soul!”

The object of his meditations was not slow to observe that Mr. Staines had suddenly received food for thought, and was not deceived, even though he kept his countenance so cleverly.

“I must be careful not to place myself for any length of time in his power,” she thought. “He is quite capable of murdering me, if his suspicions of my true identity are assured, and with me all hope of Harley’s salvation would die.”

And yet all this bye-play was unnoticed by the other boarders sitting at the table. Mrs. Dollman was a little nervous, and Mr. Staines was good-naturedly solicitous on her behalf. That was all. An hour later the room was empty of all but Miss Stratton and Mr. Staines, and the two were outwardly as enamoured of each other as yesterday. She wished to amuse him, lull his suspicions, and engage his attention until it was time to meet her in the evening, in her assumed character of Mr. Bootle. He was bent upon watching every gesture and movement of hers, and upon comparing her personality with that of the girl he suspected her to be.

Thus the afternoon wore away, and tea-time arrived. Miss Stratton had declined an invitation to have a walk with Mr. Staines, saying that she preferred a tête-à-tête by the fireside, and she had found an opportunity to warn Mrs. Dollman against saying or doing anything that could ruin the plans which were being matured with a view to capturing Mr. Staines. He was apparently as complaisant and love-stricken as ever, and both played at exchanging confidences which bore very little relation to their actual experiences. When, shortly before tea-time, Miss Stratton adjourned to her own room, she imagined that her influence over the man whom she was befooling was almost as strong as it was yesterday.

But he was deeper than she gave him credit for being, and had made an important discovery. While toying with her hair, and enthusiastically admiring its golden brilliance, he had satisfied himself that it was an artificial covering which hid the darker glory which was her natural heritage. For one brief period our heroine’s life was in immediate danger, and the reason it was spared then was because her enemy had promptly resolved to seek an opportunity likely to be fraught with less danger to himself.

They saw each other at the tea-table awhile later, and Miss Stratton was looking lovelier than ever—so lovely that, though he hated her, Gregory Staines felt himself moved by the wildest admiration of her outward charms, for her eyes sparkled and her cheeks glowed with the excitement of her conviction that at last the hour of her triumph was near at hand. Mrs. Twiley was here again. She had brought a message from her husband, and fully understood the importance of the step he contemplated taking that night. The adventure he proposed was a somewhat risky one. But she had every confidence in his courage and discretion, and was, moreover, much more capable of keeping a secret than her sister. Gregory Staines watched her narrowly, but could not detect any embarrassment in her intercourse with him, or any covert collusion between her and Miss Stratton.

“She knows nothing about me,” he thought, “and she does not seem to get on very well with the girl who is masquerading here as an artist. But that sort of thing is only natural with women. They are always jealous of anyone prettier than themselves. By heaven, I wish I had really the chance I fancied I had of winning this superb creature. Fancy having a gambling-house, with a wife like that at the head of affairs! Why, there would be no end of a fortune to be made. But it is useless to think of it, if she is really Annie Cory. If! Why, there is a doubt yet, in spite of appearances. I can’t see what her motive in making love to me can be, after all. What could she gain by it, so long as I stayed in Spain? It strikes me that I had better not be too rash. I will watch and wait. If my suspicions are unfounded, so much the better. If not, so much the worse—for her!”