Down to that moment nobody had said a word about the object of his journey, although every eye betrayed knowledge of it. But just as he was crossing the gangway to the steamer one of the advocates (a little fat man with the reputation of a wag) cried, with a broad smatch of the Anglo-Manx,
"Bring it back in your bres' pockat, boy"—meaning the King's commission for the Deemstership.
"You go bail," said Stowell, and there was general laughter.
He was settling himself with his portmanteau in the deck cabin that had been reserved for him when somebody darkened the doorway.
"Helloa!"
It was Gell. His cheeks were white, his face looked troubled, and he was breathing rapidly as if he had been running.
"What's amiss?" said Stowell. "Something has happened to you. What is it?"
Gell stepped into the cabin, and with a suspicion of tears both in his eyes and voice, told his story.
It was Bessie again. He didn't know what had come over the girl. She had been holding off all winter. First one excuse, then another.
"I've done all I can think of. Taken a house in Athol Street and furnished it beautifully (thanks to you, old fellow), but it's no use, seemingly."