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“I can’t go on playing, Pat,” she said, after a moment, her voice very low. “I have no cards left to play.”

“In that case you are beaten,” he said, with that doggedness which she was beginning to know as a part of his fighting equipment. “Do you own it?”

She hesitated.

“Do you own it?” he insisted sternly.

And, yielding to a sudden impulse that overwhelmed all reason, she threw herself unreservedly upon his mercy.

“Yes, I own it.”

He stood silent for several seconds after the admission, while she waited with a thumping heart. At last, half-grudgingly it seemed to her, he spoke.

“You are a wise woman,” he said, “even wiser than I took you for, which is saying much. The game is ended, then. But you will pardon me if I refuse to surrender my winnings. Such as they are, I value them.”

She bent her head. Her subjection was complete. She was too exhausted, physically and mentally, to attempt to withstand him, and undoubtedly the ultimate victory was his. Had he not witnessed those agonizing tears?

“You are welcome to anything you can find,” she said, smiling wanly. “I suppose all experience is of value. At least, I used to think so.”

Again for a moment he was silent. Then: “It is the most valuable thing in the world,” he said, “if you know how to turn it to account. But, sure, that is a lesson that some of us are slow to learn.”

He paused; then, as she remained silent, “You are going below to rest?” he said. “Don’t let me keep you! You have travelled hard, and need it.”

There was a hint of the old kindliness in his tone. She stood listening to it, longing, yet not daring to avail herself of it and make her peace with him.

But, whatever his intentions, it was apparently no part of Hone’s plan to allow himself to be conciliated at that stage, for, after the briefest pause, he bowed abruptly and stepped aside.

And Nina Perceval went humbly away, as befitted one who had played a desperate game, and had been outwitted by the adversary she had dared to despise.

XII

During the whole three weeks of the voyage Hone took no further action.

Nina saw him every day of those interminable weeks, but he made no sign. He did not seek her out, neither did he avoid her, but continually he mystified her by the cheery indifference of his bearing.

He became–as was almost inevitable–an immense favourite on board. He was in the thick of every amusement, and no entertainment was complete without him. No rumour of the extraordinary circumstances that had led to his undertaking the voyage had reached their fellow passengers. No one suspected that anything unusual existed between the winning, frank-faced Irishman and the silent young widow who so seldom looked his way. No one had heard of the wedding party that had lacked a bride.

But everyone welcomed Hone, V.C., as a tremendous acquisition, and Hone, V.C., laughed his humorous, good-tempered laugh, and placed himself unreservedly and impartially at everyone’s disposal.

Nina never saw him in private. In public he treated her with the kindly courtesy he extended to every woman on board. There was not in his manner the faintest hint of anything deeper. He would laugh into her eyes with absolute friendliness. And yet from the depths of her soul she feared him. She knew that he was continuing the game that she had wantonly begun. She knew that there was more to come, that he had not done with her, that he was merely waiting, as an experienced player knows how to wait, till the time arrived to play his final card.

What that final card could be she had not the remotest idea, but she awaited it with an almost morbid sense of dread. His very forbearance seemed ominous.

On the night before their arrival there was a dance on board. Nina, who had not joined in any of these gaieties for the simple reason that she had no heart for them, rose from dinner with the intention of going to her cabin. But as she passed out of the saloon, Hone stepped forward and intercepted her.