It was quite dark when they drove on to the wharf at which the boat for Venice lay. When they arrived, a plan had occurred to Staniford, through the timidity which had already succeeded the boldness of his desperation. “Dunham,” he said, “I want you to go on board, and see if she's there. I don't think I could stand not finding her. Besides, if she's cheerful and happy, perhaps I'd better not see her. You can come back and report. Confound it, you know, I should be so conscious before that infernal uncle of hers. You understand!”
“Yes, yes,” returned Dunham, eager to serve Staniford in a case like this. “I'll manage it.”
“Well,” said Staniford, beginning to doubt the wisdom of either going aboard, “do it if you think best. I don't know—”
“Don't know what?” asked Dunham, pausing in the door of the fiacre.
“Oh, nothing, nothing! I hope we're not making fools of ourselves.”
“You're morbid, old fellow!” said Dunham, gayly. He disappeared in the darkness, and Staniford waited, with set teeth, till he came back. He seemed a long time gone. When he returned, he stood holding fast to the open fiacre-door, without speaking.
“Well!” cried Staniford, with bitter impatience.
“Well what?” Dunham asked, in a stupid voice.
“Were they there?”
“I don't know. I can't tell.”