“Good-night!” she whispered.
After dinner on the day the liner left Queenstown, Lord Stranleigh sat in a comfortable chair in the daintily furnished drawing-room of his suite. A shaded electric light stood on the table at his elbow, and he was absorbed in a book he had bought before leaving London. Stranleigh was at peace with all the world, and his reading soothed a mind which he never allowed to become perturbed if he could help it. He now thanked his stars that he was sure of a week undisturbed by callers and free from written requests. Just at this moment he was amazed to see the door open, and a man enter without knock or other announcement. His first thought was to wonder what had become of Ponderby—how had the stranger eluded him? It was a ruddy-faced, burly individual who came in, and, as he turned round to shut the door softly, Stranleigh saw that his thick neck showed rolls of flesh beneath the hair. His lordship placed the open book face downwards on the table, but otherwise made no motion.
“Lord Stranleigh, I presume?” said the stranger.
Stranleigh made no reply, but continued gazing at the intruder.
“I wish to have a few words with you, and considered it better to come to your rooms than to accost you on deck. What I have to say is serious, and outside we might have got into an altercation, which you would regret.”
“You need have no fear of any altercation with me,” said Stranleigh.
“Well, at least you desire to avoid publicity, otherwise you would not be travelling under an assumed name.”
“I am not travelling under an assumed name.”
The stout man waved his hand in deprecation of unnecessary talk.
“I will come to the point at once,” he said, seating himself without any invitation.