even than her spoken words, all the perfume and mystery of her wonderful presence. Her very name was an allurement. Mademoiselle Violet! How softly it fell from the lips!... God in heaven, what was that? He started round, trembling in every limb. It was nothing more than the closing of the smoking room door behind him. Sailors with buckets and mops were already beginning their nightly tasks. He must go to his state room! Somehow or other, he must get through the night...
He did it, but he was not a very prepossessing looking object when he staggered out on deck twelve hours later, into the noon sunshine. The chair towards which he looked so eagerly was occupied. He scarcely knew himself whether that little gulp of acute feeling, which shot through his veins, was of relief or disappointment. While he hesitated, Wingrave raised his head.
Wingrave did not, as a rule, speak to his fellow passengers. Of Richardson, he had not hitherto taken the slightest notice. Yet this morning, of all others, he addressed him.
"I believe," he said, holding it out towards him, "that this envelope is yours. I found it under your chair."
Richardson muttered something inarticulate and almost snatched it away. It was the envelope of the fatal letter which Mademoiselle Violet had written him to Queenstown.
"Sit down, Mr. Richardson, if you are not in a hurry," Wingrave continued calmly. "I was hoping that I might see you this morning. Can you spare me a few minutes?"
Richardson subsided into his chair. His heart was thumping against his ribs. Wingrave's voice sounded to him like a far-off thing.
"The handwriting upon that envelope which I have just restored to you, Mr. Richardson, is well known to me," Wingrave continued, gazing steadfastly at the young man whom he was addressing.
"The envelope! The handwriting!" Richardson faltered. "I--it was from--"
An instant's pause. Wingrave raised his eyebrows.
"Ah!" he said. "We need not mention the lady's name. That she should be a correspondent of yours, however, helps me to understand better several matters which have somewhat puzzled me lately. No! Don't go, my dear sir. We must really have this affair straightened out."
"What affair?" Richardson demanded, with a very weak attempt at bluster. "I don't understand you--don't understand you at all."
Wingrave leaned a little forward in his chair. His eyebrows were drawn close together; his gaze was entirely merciless.
"You are not well this morning," he remarked. "A little headache perhaps! Won't you try one of these phenacetine lozenges--excellent things for a headache, I believe? Warranted, in fact, to cure all bodily ailments for ever! What! You don't like the look of them?"
The young man cowered back in his chair. He was gripping the sides tightly with both hands, and the 

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