16 The Saint Overboard

'The Professor's making his trial descent. I don't know what happens afterwards, but next week they're going down to Ma­deira. Vogel asked me to stay with them.'

'And you said you would.'

'Of course.'

'Must you?'

'Yes.' The word was quick, almost brutal in its curtness. And then, as if she had hurt herself also, she said: 'You don't under­stand. This is my job. I took it on with my eyes open. I told you. I gave my word. Would you think the same of me if I broke it?'

Out of the sudden ache of madness in him he answered: 'Yes, Just the same.'

'You wouldn't. You think so now, because you want me; but you'd remember. You'd always remember that I ran away once —so why shouldn't I run away again? I know I'm right.' He knew it, too. 'You must let me finish the job. Help me to finish it.'

'It's as good as finished,' he said, with a flash of the old reck­less bravado.

'Kiss me.'

The lights of the ballroom struck them like a physical blow. The orchestra was still playing. How long had they been away? Ten minutes? Ten years? She slipped into his arms and he went on dancing with her, as if they had never stopped, mechanically. He let the lights and the noise drug his senses, deliberately sink­ing himself in a stupor into which emotion could not penetrate. He would not think.

They completed a circle of the floor, and rejoined the others. Vogel was just paying a waiter.

'We thought you would like another drink after your efforts, Mr Tombs. It's quite a good floor, isn't it?'

4

Simon forced himself back to reality; and it was like stepping under a cold shower. And exactly as if he had stepped under a cold shower he was left composed and alert again, a passionless fighting machine, perfectly tuned, taking up the threads of the adventure into which he had intruded. The madness of a few moments ago might never have lived in him: he was the man who had come out on to the deck of the Corsair at the sound of a cry in the night, the cynical cavalier of the crooked world, steady-handed and steady-eyed, playing the one game in which death was the unalterable stake.

'Not at all bad,' he murmured. 'If I'd been in the Professor's shoes I wouldn't have missed it.'

'I suppose it must always be difficult for the layman to understand the single-mindedness of the scientist. And yet I can sym­pathise with him. If his experiments ended in failure, I'm sure I should be as disappointed as if a pet ambition of my own had been exploded.'

'I'm sure you would.'

Vogel's colourless lips smiled back with cadaverous suavity.

'But that's quite a remote possibility. Now, you'll be with us to-morrow, won't you? We are making a fairly early start, and the weather forecasts have promised us a fine day. Suppose you came on board about nine ...'

They discussed the projected trip while they finished their drinks, and on the walk back to the harbour. Vogel's affability was at its most effusive; his stony black eyes gleamed with a curious inward lustre. In some subtle disturbing way he seemed more confident, more serenely devoid of every trace of impa­tience or anxiety.

'Well—goodnight.'

'Till to-morrow.'

Simon shook hands; touched the moist warm paw of Otto Arnheim. He saluted Loretta with a vague flourish and the out-line of a smile.

'Goodnight.'

No more. And he was left with an odd feeling of emptiness and surprise, like a man who has dozed for a moment and roused up with a start to wonder how long he has slept or if he has slept at all. Anything that had happened since they came in from that enchanted garden