“I see,” said Margaret, hastily, flushing scarlet and turning her head away. For a while she could think of nothing further to say. To her, of course, the alleged disproof of the passenger’s identity was “confirmation strong as Holy Writ.” But her pride would not allow her to confess this, at any rate to Varney; and she was in difficulties as to how to pursue the inquiry without making the admission. At length she ventured: “Do you think that is quite conclusive? I mean, is it certain that the woman belonged to the man? There is the possibility that she may have been merely a fellow passenger whom he had casually accompanied to the ship. Or did you ascertain that they were actually—er—companions?”
“No, by Jove!” exclaimed Varney. “I never thought of any other possibilities. I heard that the man went on board with a woman and at once decided that he couldn’t be Dan. But you are quite right. They may have just met at the hotel or elsewhere and walked down to the ship together. I wonder if it’s worth while to make any further inquiries about the ship; I mean at Ipswich, or, if necessary, at Malmo.”
“Do you remember the ship’s name?”
“Yes; the Hedwig of Hernosand. She left Falmouth early on the Tuesday morning so she will probably have gone to Ipswich some time yesterday. She may be there now; or, of course, she may have picked up her stuff and gone to sea the same day. Would you like me to run down to Ipswich and see if I can find out anything?”
Margaret turned on him with a look that set his heart thumping and his pulses throbbing.
“Mr. Varney,” she said, in a low, unsteady voice, “you make me ashamed and proud: proud to have such a loyal, devoted friend, and ashamed to be such a tax on him.”
“Not at all,” he replied. “After all”—here his voice, too, became a little unsteady—“Dan was my pal; is my pal still,” he added huskily. He paused for a moment and then concluded: “I’ll go down to-night and try to pick up the scent while it is fresh.”
“It is good of you,” she exclaimed; and as she spoke her eyes filled, but she still looked at him frankly as she continued: “Your faithful friendship is no little compensation for”—she was going to say “his unfaithfulness,” but altered the words to “the worry and anxiety of this horrid mystery. But I am ashamed to let you take so much trouble, though I must confess that it would be an immense relief to me to get some news of Dan. I don’t hope for good news, but it is terrible to be so completely in the dark.”
“Yes, that is the worst part of it,” Varney agreed; and then, setting his cup on the table, he rose. “I had better be getting along now,” he said, “so that I can catch the earliest possible train. Good-bye, Mrs. Purcell, and good luck to us both.”
The leave-taking almost shattered Varney’s self-possession, for Margaret, in the excess of her gratitude, impulsively grasped both his hands and pressed them warmly as she poured out her thanks. Her touch made him tingle to the finger-ends. Heavens! How beautiful she looked, this lovely, unconscious young widow. And to think that she might in time be his own! A wild impulse surged through him to clasp her in his arms; to tell her that she was free and that he worshipped her. Of course that was a mere impulse that interfered not at all with his decorous, deferential manner. And yet a sudden, almost insensible change in hers made him suspect that his eyes had told her more than he had meant to disclose. Nevertheless, she followed him to the lobby to speed him on his errand, and when he looked back from the foot of the stairs, she was standing at the open door smiling down on him.