PAGE 5
The Swindler
by
Every one was standing by the time this elaborate threat was uttered, and it was quite obvious that Rudd voiced the general opinion. The only one whose face expressed no indignation was Archie Bathurst. He was leaning against the wall, mopping his forehead with a shaking hand.
No one looked at him. All attention was centred upon West, who met it with a calm serenity suggestive of contempt. He showed himself in no hurry to respond to Rudd’s indictment, and when he did it was not exclusively to Rudd that he spoke.
“I am sorry,” he coolly said, “that you consider yourselves aggrieved by my experiment. I do not myself see in what way I have injured you. However, perhaps you are the best judges of that. If you consider an apology due to you, I am quite ready to apologise.”
His glance rested for a second upon Archie, then slowly swept the entire assembly. There was scant humility about him, apologise though he might.
Rudd returned his look with open disgust. But it was Norton who replied to West’s calm defence of himself.
“It is Bathurst who is the greatest loser,” he said, with a glance at that young man, who was beginning to recover from his agitation. “It was a tom-fool trick to play, but it’s done. You won’t get another opportunity for your experiments on board this boat. So–if Bathurst is satisfied–I should say the sooner you apologise and clear out the better.”
“We will confiscate this, anyway,” declared Rudd, plucking the mirror from West’s coat.
He flung it down, and ground his heel upon it with venomous intention. West merely shrugged his shoulders.
“I apologise,” he said briefly, “singly and collectively, to all concerned in my experiment, especially”–he made a slight pause–“to Mr. Bathurst, whose run of luck I deeply regret to have curtailed. If Mr. Bathurst is satisfied, I will now withdraw.”
He paused again, as if to give Bathurst an opportunity to express an opinion. But Archie said nothing whatever. He was staring down upon the table, and did not so much as raise his eyes.
West shrugged his shoulders again, ever so slightly, and swung slowly upon his heel. In a dead silence he walked away down the saloon. No one spoke till he had gone.
* * * * *
A black, moaning night had succeeded the grey, gusty day. The darkness came down upon the sea like a pall, covering the long, heaving swell from sight–a darkness that wrapped close, such a darkness as could be felt–through which the spray drove blindly.
There was small attraction for passengers on deck, and West grimaced to himself as he emerged from the heated cabins. Yet it was not altogether distasteful to him. He was a man to whom a calm atmosphere meant intolerable stagnation. He was essentially born to fight his way in the world.
For a while he paced alone, to and fro, along the deserted deck, his hands behind him, the inevitable cigarette between his lips. But presently he paused and stood still close to the companion by which he had ascended. It was sheltered here, and he leaned against the woodwork by which Cynthia Mortimer had supported herself that morning, and smoked serenely and meditatively.
Minutes passed. There came the sound of hurrying feet upon the stairs behind him, and he moved a little to one side, glancing downwards.
The light at the head of the companion revealed a man ascending, bareheaded, and in evening dress. His face, upturned, gleamed deathly white. It was the face of Archie Bathurst.
West suddenly squared his shoulders and blocked the opening.
“Go and get an overcoat, you young fool!” he said.
Archie gave a great start, stood a second, then, without a word, turned back and disappeared.
West left his sheltered corner and paced forward across the deck. He came to a stand by the rail, gazing outwards into the restless darkness. There seemed to be the hint of a smile in his intent eyes.