Annie heard this muttered conversation without taking it in. Beveridge still held her wrist, held it tighter than he knew, but she was hardly conscious of this either. She was caught up and whirled along on the high wind of events. She was conscious only of Beveridge, of a new side to his character. The young man she had known on the beach and aboard the Captain had vanished. This Beveridge was hard, irresistible; his manner, the atmosphere about him, spoke of some object that must be reached without regard to obstacles. Her Beveridge had been friendly, considerate; there was nothing considerate about this man. And yet, a part of his object was to convince her that he was right and that Dick was wrong; and she knew why.
Dick had gone back to his seat on the cabin trunk. Beveridge, gripping Annie's wrist, stood at the pier edge, and looked down.
“Smiley,” he said.
Dick crossed the deck. “I'm Smiley. What is it?”
“I shall have to ask you to come away with me.”
“Who are you?”
“Beveridge, special agent of the United States Treasury Department.”
“Well, what do you want me for?” Dick was peering forward, trying to make out the figure in the background.
“I guess it isn't necessary to tell you that; I 'll give you a minute to get what things you need.”
“Who have you got there?”