The Pagan Madonna - Page 127/141

"Oh, I had forgotten!" cried Jane, reproaching herself. Weakened as he

was, and sitting in a chair!

"And don't forget, Cleigh, that I'm master of the Wanderer until I leave

it. I sympathize deeply," Cunningham went on, ironically, "but I have some

active troubles of my own."

"And God send they abide with you always!" was Cleigh's retort.

"They will--if that will give you any comfort. Do you know what? You will

always have me to thank for this. That will be my comforting thought. The

god in the car!"

Later, when Cleve helped Cunningham into his bunk, the latter asked about

the crew.

"Scared stiff. They realize that it was a close shave. I've put the fools

in irons. They're best there until we leave. But we can't do anything but

forget the racket when we board the Dutchman. Where's that man Flint? We

can't find him anywhere. He's at the bottom of it. I knew that sooner or

later there'd be the devil to pay with a woman on board. Probably the

fool's hiding in the bunkers. I'll give every rat hole a look-see. Pretty

nearly got you."

"Flint was out of luck--and so was I! I thought in pistols, and forgot

that there might be a knife or two. I'll be on my feet in the morning.

Little weak, that's all. Nobody and nothing!" said Cunningham, addressing

the remark to the crossbeam above his head.

"What's that?" asked Cleve.

"I was thinking out loud. Get back to the chart house. Old Newton may play

us some trick if he isn't watched. And don't bother to search for Flint. I

know where he is."

Something in Cunningham's tone coldly touched Cleve's spine. He went out,

closing the door quietly; and there was reason for the sudden sweat in his

palms.

Chance! A wry smile stirred one corner of Cunningham's mouth. He had

boasted that he had left nothing to chance, with this result! Burning up!

Inward and outward fires! Love beads! Well, what were they if not that?

But that she would trust him when everything about him should have

repelled her! Was there a nugget of forgotten gold in his cosmos, and had

she discovered it? She still trusted him, for he had sensed it in the

quick but tender touch of her hands upon his throbbing wounds.

To learn, after all these years, that he had been a coward! To have run

away from misfortune instead of facing it and beating it down!

Pearls! All he had left! And when he found them, what then? Turn them into

money he no longer cared to spend? Or was this an interlude--a mocking

interlude, and would to-morrow see his conscience relegated to the dustbin

out of which it had so oddly emerged?