it down to Honiton's realisation of the short period of freedom that remained to him. His observant eyes had not failed to notice the growing intimacy between Honiton and Jocelyn Upton, but he was far from a perception of the real relation between them. That was such an unexpected development, even to the two principally concerned, that he could hardly have anticipated it. He had been thinking of Honiton and his dreary future when the man himself entered the cabin. Brown looked up, but did not meet the usual friendly smile that could make Honiton's face so pleasant to look on, nor was there any answer to his word of greeting. Honiton sat down heavily, and, elbows on knees, sunk his head in his hands. Peter Brown looked at him in dismay. The man was taking his false position desperately to heart, he thought. Placing a kindly hand on the humped shoulder, he rocked his prisoner gently to and fro. "Don't take it to heart, Honiton," he said with clumsy sympathy. There was no answer. Honiton did not even look up. The detective removed his hand, and used it to scrape his lean jaw as he stood looking down on his prisoner. He was filled with a pity that he could not express. His imagination pictured Honiton with close-cropped hair-in prison clothes-exercising in a file of beetle-browed criminals. He "Cheer up, Honiton,' he said. "You've stuck it well up to now. Forget the future until it comes, and then face it like a man. It may not be so very bad after all. With luck and an easy judge you may get off lightly, and before you know it you'll be outmaking a fresh start in life." Honiton's head sunk more deeply in his hands. He gave no other sign that he heard. 66 Anything I can do to make it easier for you I'll do, went on Peter Brown. “I can never forget what you did for me at Valetta. I admit I never expected to see you again, and when you walked in I had the biggest surprise of my life. Honiton, if you had the pluck to do that, you're surely not the man to fail when it comes to taking punishment!" "For God's sake, Brown, let me alone. I'm not worth your trouble. If you knew He groaned in his agony, and With a sigh of relief she realised that he was asleep. By degrees she disentangled herself, and with great care and anxiety slipped from the bunk to the floor. Charlie stirred and started in his sleep, but did not awaken. Now that the immediate need for action was over, Joan found herself a-tremble from head to foot. A terrible sense of utter loneliness possessed her, as though she were unclean and cast out from mankind. She dreaded her husband's awakening. Though she had subdued his mania with so much success, she felt that she had not the courage to face a renewal of it; and she knew instinctively that it was not at an end. out her own volition, to Peter Brown. What he was-what he had done-affected her not at all. She wanted his sympathy, his help, and in the reaction following upon her ordeal, she was left without the power to resist her desire, or even to consider the advisability of resisting it. Hurriedly she pinned up her dark tangled hair and wrapped herself in a dressing-gown. She knew where to find him. It was the hour at which the passengers retired to their cabins to prepare for dinner. Charlie was still asleep, though restless and muttering. She must risk leaving him for a moment. She opened the door noiselessly and slipped out, closing Her thoughts went out, with- it as noiselessly behind her. CHAPTER XXIII. Since the cowardice of the deception of which he had been guilty in the morning, Honiton had endured torture indescribable. To have borne the gnawing of his conscience in solitude would have been almost a relief, but he was not suffered to be alone. Jocelyn claimed him, and expected to find him a mirror of her own happi ness. Never was a man more hopelessly placed. His very love was his punishment. He forced himself to talk, he laughed at Jocelyn's sallies, he entered each and every of her varying happy moods, while behind it all his mind worked in a fog of misery and self-contempt. Peter Brown he avoided. He could not bear to meet his kindly eyes, though he knew the time would come when a meeting was unavoidable. The time came in the hour before dinner. The detective was in their cabin when Honiton entered. Brown liked Honiton, and liking him, pitied him. He had noticed the change that had taken place in his prisoner after the arrival at Gibraltar the previous evening, and it pained him. Having no knowledge of its true cause, he put it down to Honiton's realisa- had never felt like this for a tion of the short period of freedom that remained to him. His observant eyes had not failed to notice the growing intimacy between Honiton and Jocelyn Upton, but he was far from a perception of the real relation between them. That was such an unexpected development, even to the two principally concerned, that he could hardly have anticipated it. He had been thinking of Honiton and his dreary future when the man himself entered the cabin. Brown looked up, but did not meet the usual friendly smile that could make Honiton's face so pleasant to look on, nor was there any answer to his word of greeting. Honiton sat down heavily, and, elbows on knees, sunk his head in his hands. Peter Brown looked at him in dismay. The man was taking his false position desperately to heart, he thought. Placing a kindly hand on the humped shoulder, he rocked his prisoner gently to and fro. "Don't take it to heart, Honiton," he said with clumsy sympathy. There was no answer. Honiton did not even look up. The detective removed his hand, and used it to scrape his lean jaw as he stood looking down on his prisoner. He was filled with a pity that he could not express. His imagination pictured Honiton with close-cropped hair-in prison clothes-exercising in a file of beetle-browed criminals. He prisoner before-but then he had never before had a prisoner like this. So long as Honiton had retained his spirits, his careless manner, and his cheery laugh, this aching sympathy had lain dormant, unperceived by himself, and now it surprised him by its intensity. The very fervour of it lifted him from his awkwardness, and gave him words. He sat down beside the tortured man, and placed a long skinny arm round his shoulders. "Cheer up, Honiton," he said. "You've stuck it well up to now. Forget the future until it comes, and then face it like a man. It may not be so very bad after all. With luck and an easy judge you may get off lightly, and before you know it you'll be outmaking a fresh start in life." Honiton's head sunk more deeply in his hands. He gave no other sign that he heard. "Anything I can do to make it easier for you I'll do," went on Peter Brown. "I can never forget what you did for me at Valetta. I admit I never expected to see you again, and when you walked in I had the biggest surprise of my life. Honiton, if you had the pluck to do that, you're surely not the man to fail when it comes to taking punishment ! " "For God's sake, Brown, let me alone. I'm not worth your trouble. If you knew shook off the sympathetic arm that was far from his deserts. Peter Brown was was acutely unhappy at his powerlessness to help, for pity is a poor consolation to a man in his trouble. "I hate to see you flopped out like this, man," he ventured again, twisting his long thin fingers until they hurt. "I never realised until now how much you must be suffering, and what an effort it must be to show a smiling face all the time. I thought you must be callous. It shows how easy it is to misjudge a man." Honiton got up and stood looking at the floor. "You're a good sort, Brown," he said in a flat toneless voice. "I believe you'd trust me after that affair at Malta." "You've played the game so fairly that I believe you'd act square by me so long as our bargain is in force," replied the detective. "More than that I wouldn't expect." Honiton looked up at him steadily, determination slowly shaping in his face. For a time he said nothing, then, with a visible effort, he spoke. "I will act squarely by you, old friend. Whatever it may cost, I can't let you down." He exhaled a long breath as though his own words had brought him relief, and stepped briskly to the door. "I'll see you at dinner, Brown," he said, and went out quickly. his head, and returned to the hated task of tying a bow. The graceless travesty that his efforts produced was no worse than usual, but he sighed again at his ineptitude as he looked at the result. There was a knock upon the door-a light hesitating knock that could not be mistaken for the sharp rat-tat of the steward. Peter opened the door and saw Joan Conliffe standing outside, her usually pale face dead white and fearful. "Come quickly," she said, almost in a whisper. "Come as you are. I mustn't be away a moment. He may wake up before we get back." She did not ask for help, so sure of him was she. Peter Brown did not hesitate. He picked up his old coat and slipped his arms into it, and joined her in the passage. She hurried along in front of him without explanation, and opened the door of her own cabin. The detective followed her in. The latch clicked as the door closed, and the sharp sound was sufficient to arouse the sleeper. He started up and looked wildly out. "God! They're back again," he cried, his eyes upon the floor. "Who broke the string and let them loose I swear I didn't. Catch them, Joan, or they'll crawl out and give me away." He leapt from the bunk, and, on his knees upon the carpet, grabbed here and there Peter Brown sighed, shook after the non-existent, whining and snarling as the imaginary jewels escaped his clutch. Brown, ignorant of what had gone before, was deeply shocked. The sight of Charlie's wild face and staring eyes, the monstrous incongruity of his pale blue silk pyjamas printed with gaycoloured butterflies, his bare ugly feet with toes doubled under, and calloused bulbous heels upturned, horrified him. To him it was indecent that the woman should be present. She, her courage restored by his support, bent and tried to raise her husband from the floor. "Come on, Joan, help," he cried. "They slip through my fingers." “Never mind, Charlie," she said quietly. "Get back to bed. I'll gather them up for you. Come." "You won't let any of them give you the slip? They're so damned quick, and as cunning as hell." "No, no, Charlie. Come." "All right, old girl. You're a good sort. Put them in a box and hide them. If he sees them I'm done." So far he had taken no notice of Peter Brown. His eyes had been too intent upon their own delusions. He saw him now, and clung to his wife in fresh terror. "He's got me, Joan. Keep him off-keep him off! I never meant to do it!" "No, no, Charlie," said Joan soothingly." He has come to help us keep him out. He is a friend. You can sleep quite "I give you my word I am your friend," said Peter Brown, striving to give to his words an earnestness that would convey conviction. "Come, old chap, lie down. Your wife and I will see to everything." Between them they got him back to his bunk, and there ensued the ghastly farce of collecting the imaginary diamonds from the floor under Charlie's frenzied directions. Gradually he quietened as they humoured his delusion, until at last he saw no more, and lay back exhausted. Joan held his hand, and again he dropped into a troubled sleep. Peter Brown, meanwhile, had been thinking deeply. It was plain that the accusation of the theft of Lady Pilth's jewels had worked upon Conliffe's mind until he had become convinced of its truth. It was that, and that alone, that had driven him to the excessive drinking that had led to this. If only he could be convinced of his own innocence he might be brought back to sanity. He caught Joan Conliffe's eyes fixed on him questioningly. She removed her hand gently from her husband's, and crossed silently to Peter Brown. |