PART I: THE SEA LIKE BRONZE. . . . (continued 2)

"Yes," she answered almost in a whisper, then looked up directly at Harkness. He could not mistake her glance. It was an appeal absolutely for help. He could see that she was at the end of her control. Her hand was trembling against the cloth. She had been drinking some of her Burgundy, and he guessed that this was a desperate measure. He divined that she was urging herself to some act from which, during all these weeks, she had been shuddering.

His own heart was beating furiously. The food, the wine, the lights, Crispin's strange and beautiful voice were accompaniments to some act that he saw now hanging in front of him, or rather waiting, as a carriage waits, into which now of his own free-will he is about to step to be whirled to some terrific destination.

He tried to put purpose into his glance back to her as though he would say "Let me be of some use to you. I am here for that. You can trust me."

He felt that she knew that she could. She might, such was her case, trust any one at this crisis, but she had been watching him, he felt sure, throughout the meal, listening to his voice, studying his movements, wondering, perhaps, whether he too were in this conspiracy against her.

He had the sudden conviction that on an instant she had resolved that she could trust him, and had he had time to do as was usual with him, to step back and regard himself, he would have been amazed at his own happiness.

They had come to the dessert. Crispin, as though he had no purpose in life but to make every one happy, was cracking walnuts for his daughter-in-law and talking about a thousand things. There was nothing apparently that he did not know and nothing that he did not wish to hand over to his dear friends.

"It is too bad that I can't show you my 'Hundred Guilders.'" He cracked a walnut, and his soft boneless fingers seemed suddenly to be endued with an amazing strength. "But why shouldn't I? What are you doing this evening?"

"I have no plans," said Harkness; "I thought I would go perhaps down to the market and look at the fun."

"Yes—well. . . . Let me see. But that will fit splendidly. We have an engagement for an hour or two—to say good-bye to an old friend. Why not join us here at—say—half-past ten? I have my car here. It is only half an hour's drive. Come out for an hour or two and see my things. It will give me so much pleasure to show you what I have. I can offer you a good cigar too and some brandy that should please you. What do you say?"

Harkness looked across at the girl. "Thank you," he said gravely, "I shall be delighted."

"That's splendid. Very good of you. The house also should interest you. Very old and curious. It has a history too. I have rented it for the last year. I shall be quite sorry to leave it."

Then, smiling, he lent across—"What do you say, Hesther? Shall we have our coffee outside?"

"Yes, thank you," she answered, with a curious childish inflection as though she were repeating some lesson that was only half remembered.

She rose and started down the room. Harkness followed her. Half-way to the door Crispin was stopped for a moment by the head waiter and stayed with his son.

Harkness spoke rapidly. "There is no time at all, but I want you to know that I was in the room at the top of the house just now when you were there. I heard everything. I apologise for overhearing. I could not escape, but I want you to know that if there's anything I can do—anything in the world—I will do it. Tell me if there is. We have only a moment."

On looking back afterwards he thought it marvellous of her that, realising who was behind them, she scarcely turned her head, showed no emotion, but speaking swiftly, answered:

"Yes, I am in great trouble—desperate trouble. I am sure you are kind. There is a thing you can do."

"Tell me," he urged. They were now nearly by the door and the two men were coming up.

"I have a friend. I told him that if I would agree to his plan I would send a message to him to-night. I did not mean to agree, but now—I'm not brave enough to go on. He is to be at half-past nine at a little hotel—'The Feathered Duck'—on the sea-front. Any one will tell you where it is. His name is Dunbar. He is young, short, you can't mistake him. He will be waiting there. Go to him. Tell him I agree. I'll never forget . . ."

Crispin's forehead confronted them. "What do you say to this? Here is a sheltered corner."

Dunbar? Dunbar? Where had he heard the name before?

They all sat down.