There it was in great staring lines of type before my eyes. I had but just digested the headlines, and was preparing to read the solid columns when Eve snatched it away.
"I can't wait for you to read it all. I want to show it to father."
There was probably nothing there that Old Goodwin did not know already. He has a way of knowing things; but I said nothing of it. I smiled again at Eve, and let her go.
"Adam," she said anxiously, turning back, "you wouldn't commit murders on the sea, would you? You couldn't persuade yourself that it was right?"
"Well," I answered gravely, "I have none in contemplation, but I have not given the matter much consideration. If I were sailing the high seas, and were to meet—also sailing the raging main—Sands and his talking machine, I might—"
Eve laughed. "Yes, you might." And she came back and kissed me. "You're no sort of a murderer."
"You don't know, Eve," I protested, "what sort of a murderer I might be. I would not boast, and I speak in all modesty, but I try to do as well as I can whatever I set my hand to. I venture to say that I should do my murdering thoroughly."
She laughed again, merrily, and again she kissed me.
"The murdering that you will do will not amount to that." And she snapped her fingers. "Jack Ogilvie is like to do more of it,—if you call that murder." She sighed and turned away. "Now I will go."