"Oh, is there nothing you can do?" she asked, looking at the manager appealingly. He glanced at Whitridge. "You don't know the terror I feel—the horror I have of being put inside," she went on. There was a note of genuine distress in her voice.
"There is another ship in eight days," answered the manager.
"But it is imperative that I sail on this one."
"If you will permit me," interrupted Whitridge, baring his head, "I will resign my room to you."
"Oh, but that would not be fair. You are very kind, but I—I must pay for my lateness." She met his gaze with an honest, uncompromising directness in her blue eyes. "You——"
"Really it doesn't much matter where I am put," and a note of sadness in his voice brought an expression of interest into her brow. For a part of a second their glances held and then Whitridge turned to the clerk: "This lady will take my room."
He spoke with a finality which evidently was strange to her. She frowned slightly and started as if to protest again.
"You should accept, Miss Granville," said the manager anxiously and in a way that indicated his desire to please a person of some importance. She paused uncertainly as her lips framed a "No," but meeting Whitridge's gaze again she gave a nod of decision.
"I will accept. You are rendering me a service greater than you know," she said gratefully and there was a brilliance as of tears in her eyes. "I thank you—very much."
The manager, beaming with delight, thanked Whitridge and led her back to his private office. At the threshold she paused and turned to surprise Whitridge's gaze fixed hungrily upon her. A smile with which she intended to thank him died on her lips. A startled look came into her eyes. She did not move until he turned toward the clerk, who was asking him for a record for the customs' clearance.