Dinner passed.
Still no Roderic.
She confided her fears in part to the captain.
The worthy seadog was able to wrestle with any perplexing problem that might assail them afloat, but when it came to mastering the wiles apt to beset a man's path ashore he confessed his ignorance.
Nothing could be done—they must wait till a sign of some kind was given.
That was the exasperating part, for Cleo was naturally a girl of decided action.
An hour crept by since dinner—two of them, and it was now drawing near ten o'clock.
No one entered the door but that Cleo's eyes were instantly upon them, and disappointment had as yet been the only result.
She endeavored to be her own lively self but it required a great effort.
Roderic might be in danger, but somehow she was possessed of the idea that it was more from a pair of midnight eyes than a murderous stiletto, for Cleo could not forget the face she had seen, the lovely original of her photograph, who was even now in Dublin.