And yet here he was hemmed in with Yootha and on the point of becoming an unwilling accessory to another’s blackmail in order to shield, not himself only—that, he told himself, he never would have done—but the woman he loved to distraction, and to protect her honor. The prospect was too awful, and, as he thought about it now, racking his brain to find a way out of the net which had been so cleverly drawn around them both, every way seemed blocked, and a cold perspiration broke out all over him.
Silently he kissed Yootha once more as she bade him good night, and for several minutes they remained locked in each other’s arms.
When he was alone again, Tom came to him. In his hand was a large, rather bulky gray envelope.
“This was brought for you, sir, about six o’clock, and as it is marked very urgent I took the dinghy and rowed to the boat where you had gone to tea, but the gentleman told me you had just left.”
“What gentleman?”
“I don’t know his name, sir, but——”
And he described his appearance.
“La Planta,” Preston said aloud, with a frown. Then he took the letter and went below to read it by the light of the lamp, leaving Tom on deck.
About two minutes later the ex-soldier stopped abruptly in his work of folding up the deck-chairs, and listened. No sound was audible.
“Strange,” he murmured. “I could have sworn I heard a groan.”