The first thing Clement Seadon did was to give way to one of those outbursts of anger that, in time, bring calmness. They had scored over him—they had tricked him, these blackguards. They had dealt him a very damaging blow.

Then from this anger against their very definite triumph, his cooling brain turned to the matter which had helped them to score that point. The explanation he found was perfectly simple. That letter had been stolen from his despatch case. He was not of the type that leaves letters lying about, particularly lawyers’ letters. Theft, that was the solution. Some one had been through his effects. They had found this letter, appreciated its worth as a means of alienating Heloise. They had been clever, as clever as he thought they were, and had struck at him at the psychological moment.

Who had been the thief? That, again, was easy. Who else but the rascally steward, a fellow in their pay, a member of the gang, who had the right to come and go in all the cabins. And, now that the thing was brought acutely to his mind, he recalled[Pg 77] seeing the rogue hanging about in the gallery, conspicuously near his door. He remembered him, not merely because of his redoubtably evil face, but also because he was so resolutely dirty.... His should-be white steward’s jacket had a beastly and disfiguring stain of yellow—rust, perhaps—up the left arm and shoulder.

[Pg 77]

Yes, that criminal-looking steward was the thief—but what matter? That part was passed and over. Could the thing be remedied? It looked black. It looked as though Heloise Reys would for the future hold him at arm’s length—only she must not. For her own sake, if not for his, he must prevent her holding him at arm’s length. He must speak with her.

It would be difficult. He might see and be able to speak to her to-night, after dinner, but he was not hopeful. She would evade him—Neuburg and the Gorgon would see to that. To-morrow—less hope to-morrow. The hustle and bustle of leaving the ship at Quebec would give no opportunity. At Quebec ... he gained a ray of comfort. At Quebec, yes, it might be done. He knew that she was to stay at the Château Frontenac for at least two days. She had told him she had rooms reserved there.... And so had he. Well, if he could not see her, even if he had to force himself upon her, during those two days, then he wasn’t the man he thought he was.

Quebec would be his salvation. Quebec would[Pg 78] see him right himself with her, put him on a footing which would enable him 

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