Paid in His Own Coin.

In Suspense: a Gleam of Comfort.—Darkness Returns.—The Rock Ahead.—Sir William Lends His Binocular.—Reappearance of an Old Enemy.—A New Danger.—Out of the Frying-pan.

Peter found himself below this time, in the broad passage, furnished with seats and tables for writing, which divided the passengers' cabins. Above, he heard a confused stir and bustle of excitement, the trampling of feet, the creaking and rattle of chains, orders shouted in English and Hindustani. From the absence of all vibration, in the vessel, it was evident that she had been brought to. Why?

Peter guessed the cause only too easily: the unhappy Miss Davenport had indeed succeeded in carrying out her rash design. She had jumped overboard, and the captain had stopped the engines and lowered a boat in the hope of picking her up before she sank! And he himself—why was he skulking below like this? He had only too much reason to fear that he must have been a witness of the fatal leap; and, instead of plunging overboard to the rescue as a hero ought, had rushed down here ignominiously.

Had he been observed? Was his connection with the tragedy suspected? Could he venture up on deck and inform himself? He tried, but his nerve failed him, and he sank into one of the chairs in a state of almost unbearable suspense.

Just at this moment, he saw the skirts of a muslin gown appear at the head of the broad companion which led to the dining-saloon. Someone, a girl evidently, was descending. Presently he saw her fully revealed—it was Miss Tyrrell.

Perhaps he had never been so glad to see her before. She was a friend, a dear friend. She, at least, would sympathise with him, would understand that it was not his fault if he had been too late to avert a catastrophe. She was coming to him. Her eyes were friendly and pitiful as they sought his. She, at least, did not turn from him!

"How pale, how terribly pale you look!" she said. "You must nerve yourself to see her—it cannot be long now!"

"Has she been brought on board yet?" he gasped. "Is—is there any hope?"

"We shall know very soon. It is possible you may find that all is at an end."

"Ah! you think so? But—but no one will say it was my fault, will they? I—I was ready to make any sacrifice—only somehow, when the moment comes, I am apt to lose my presence of mind."

"Yes, I know," she said feelingly; "you are not quite yourself yet, but I know you would make the sacrifice if your duty demanded it. But she may have taken advantage of your absence to free herself and you from all obligation, may she not?"

This suggestion comforted Peter.

"She must have done!" he said. "Yes, of course. I could not be expected to prevent it, if I wasn't there; and I wasn't, when it came to the point. But, Miss Tyrrell, do you think that it is really all over? She—she may come round after all!"

"She may—but of course, if it is true that she is engaged to another, she can have no possible claim on you."

What a sensible right-minded way this girl had of looking at things! thought Peter, not for the first time.

"Why, of course she can't!" he cried. "And it is true. She is engaged—to a fellow of the name of Alfred."

"You know that as a fact?" she exclaimed.

"I know it from her own lips, and I need not say that I should be the last person to wish to—er—upset so desirable an arrangement."

"Why—why didn't you tell me all this before?" she inquired.

"I—I didn't think it would interest you," he replied.

Here, to Peter's utter astonishment, she covered her face with her hands.

"Not interest me!" she murmured at last. "Oh, how could you—how could you keep this from me? Can't you see—can't you guess what a difference it has made in my feelings?"

It might be very dull of him, but he could not perceive why the fact of Miss Davenport's engagement to Alfred should affect Miss Tyrrell so strangely as this!

"I may call you 'Peter' now," she said. "Oh, Peter, how happy you have made me! Why did you keep silence so long? It was too quixotic! Don't you understand even yet?"

"No," said Peter blankly, "I'm afraid I don't."

"Then, if you are really so diffident, I—I must tell you that if you were to ask a certain question once more, I might—I don't say I should, but I might—meet it with a different answer!"

"Good heavens!" he ejaculated, involuntarily.

"But you must not ask me yet—not just yet. I must have time to consider. I must tell papa before I decide anything. You will wait a little longer, won't you, Peter?"

"Yes," he said, feeling limp, "I'll wait. I'd rather!"

She smiled radiantly upon him, and then fled lightly up the companion, leaving him with fresh cause for uneasiness. He could no longer doubt that, for some reason, she expected him to propose to her, which it seemed he had already, in one of those confounded extra minutes, been unprincipled enough to do! Now she had gone to inform her father, the Judge, and he would have the disagreeable task of disabusing them before long!

At this point he started, believing that he was visited by an apparition; for a cabin-door opened, and Miss Davenport came out and stood before him.

But she was so obviously flesh and blood—and so dry—that he soon saw that all his anxiety on her account had been superfluous.

"Then you—you didn't jump overboard after all?" he faltered, divided between relief and annoyance at having been made to come back, as it were, on false pretences.

"You know who prevented me, and by what arguments!" she said, in a low strained voice.

"Do I?" he said, helplessly.

"Who should, if you do not? Did not you implore me not to leave you, and declare that, if I would only have courage and wait, we should be happy even yet? And I did wait. For what, I ask you, Peter Tourmalin—for what?"

"It's really no use asking me," he said, "for I've no idea!"

"I waited—to discover that all this time you have had a secret understanding with another; that you are about to transfer your fickle affections to—to that fair girl! Don't deny it, Peter! I was listening. I see it all—all!"

"I wish to goodness I did!" he said. "I never was in such a muddle as this in my life. I can only assure you that if that young lady really imagines that I am, or can be, anything more to her than a friend, she is entirely mistaken. I was just about to go up and explain as much to her father!"

"You are not deceiving me?" she asked, earnestly. "You are sure?"

"I will swear it, if you wish!" he replied.

"No," she said, relenting visibly, "your word is enough. I do believe you, and I am almost happy again. So long as you do not desert me, even Alfred loses half his terrors!"

"Exactly," he said; "and now, if you will excuse me, I'll just run up on deck and settle this other business."

He went up to the hurricane-deck, and found the ship had anchored. In front was a huge barren rock, with lines of forts, walls, and telegraph poles; and at its base, a small white town huddled. They had arrived at Gibraltar, which accounted for the absence of motion.

As he stood there, taking this in, he was accosted by Sir William Tyrrell, who thrust his arm through Peter's in a friendly manner.

"My dear boy," said the Judge heartily, "Violet has just told me the good news. I can only say that I am delighted—most delighted! I have always felt a warm interest in you, ever since that affair of——"

"Of the monkey," said Peter. "I am very glad to hear it, Sir William; but—but I ought to tell you that I am afraid Miss Tyrrell was—a little premature. She misinterpreted a remark of mine, which, in point of fact, referred to somebody else altogether."

"Then you have no more reason than before for assuming that your fianÇÉe has thrown you over. Am I to understand that?"

"No more reason than before," admitted Peter.

"And your uncertainty still continues? Very unsatisfactory, I must say! I do think, my dear fellow, that, in your position, you should have been more careful to refrain from betraying any interest in Violet until you knew that you were free to speak. As it is, you may have cast a shadow upon her young life that it will take years to dispel!"

Peter's heart sank into his boots for very shame at this gentle and almost paternal reproof.

"Yes," continued the worthy Judge, "Violet is a high-minded girl, scrupulously sensitive on points of honour; and, unless the young lady you are under a semi-engagement to should release you of her own free will, I know my daughter too well to doubt that she will counsel you to fulfil your contract and renounce all hope so far as she is concerned."

Peter felt a little easier.

"I—I am prepared to do that," he said.

"Well, I don't say myself that I go quite so far as she does; but strictly, no doubt, a promise is a promise, and should be kept at all hazards. You have done all that a man can honourably do to put himself right. You have written to this young lady, so I understand, informing her of the change in your sentiments, and offering, nevertheless, to redeem your promise if she insisted upon it. I think that was the general purport of your letter?"

Here was one more evil fruit of his extra time! What would Sophia think, or say, or do, if such a letter as that ever came to her knowledge? Fortunately, that at least was impossible!

"You have some grounds," the Judge went on, "for assuming that the lady has already treated the contract as non-existent—a person called Alfred, I think my daughter said?"

"No, that was a mistake," explained Peter. "Alfred is engaged to quite a different person."

"Well, in any case, it is quite possible that you may obtain your release when you meet her; and your suspense will soon be over now. Miss—er—Pincher, is it?—will probably be on board the ship before many minutes. I see the boats are putting out from the harbour already."

"What!" cried Peter, with the terrible conviction darting through his mind that Sir William spoke the bare truth.

Sophia had said something about meeting him at Gibraltar; but if she had done so during the real voyage, how could he have the meeting all over again, with this ghastly variation? If he could only remember whether she had come out, or not! It was singular, incomprehensible! But his memory was a blank on such a vital fact as this!

"Would you like to have my field-glass for a moment?" said Sir William, considerately.

Peter took it, and the next moment the binocular fell from his nerveless hands. He had seen only too clearly the familiar form of Sophia seated in the peaked stern of a small craft, which a Spanish boatman was "scissoring" through the waves towards the Boomerang.

"Come, courage!" said the Judge kindly, as he picked up his glass and wiped the lenses. "Don't be nervous, my boy. You don't know what she may have to say to you yet, you know!"

"No, I don't!" he groaned. "I—I think I ought to go down to the gangway and meet her," he added, tremulously,—not that he had any intention of doing so, but he wanted to be alone.

Before the Judge could even express his approbation of Peter's course, Tourmalin was down on the saloon-deck seeking a quiet spot wherein to collect his thoughts.

Before he could find the quiet spot, however, he almost ran into the arms of the matron from Melbourne, whom he had not seen since the episode of the music-room.

"A word with you, Mr. Tourmalin!" she said.

"I—I really can't stop now," stammered Peter. "I—I'm expecting friends!"

"I, too," she said, "am expecting a relation, and it is for that reason that I wish to speak to you now. My brother, who has been staying at Gibraltar on account of his health, will be as determined as I am to trace and punish the infamous calumny upon the name and career of our honoured parent."

"I daresay, madam," said Peter,—"I daresay. Very creditable to you both—but I really can't stop just now!"

"You appear to forget, sir, that, unless you can satisfactorily establish your innocence, my brother will certainly treat you as the person primarily responsible for an atrocious slander!"

"A slander—upon your father!... Me?" said the indignant Peter. "Why, I never heard of the gentleman!"

"Denial will not serve you now," she said. "I have not only your own admissions in the music-room, but the evidence of more than one trustworthy witness, to prove that you circulated a report that my dear father—one of the most honoured and respected citizens of Melbourne—began his Colonial career as—as a transported convict!"

After all, as the hapless Peter instantly saw, he might have said so, for anything he knew, in one of those still unexhausted extra quarters of an hour!

"If I said so, I was misinformed," he said.

"Just so; and in our conversation on the subject, you mentioned the name of the person who used you as his mouthpiece to disseminate his malicious venom. What I wish to know now is, whether you are prepared or not to repeat that statement?"

Peter recollected now that he had used expressions implicating Mr. Perkins, although merely as the origin of totally different complications.

"I can't positively go so far as that," he said. "I—I made the statement generally."

"As you please," she said. "I can merely say that my brother, whom I expect momentarily, is, although an invalid in some respects, a powerful and determined man; and unless you repeat in his presence the sole excuse you have to offer, he will certainly horsewhip you in the presence of the other passengers. That is all, sir!"

"Thank you—it's quite enough!" murmured Peter, thinking that Alfred himself could hardly be much more formidable; and he slipped down the companion to the cabin-saloon, where he found Miss Davenport anxiously expecting him.

"He is here," she whispered. "I have just seen him through the port-hole."

"What—the old lady's brother!" he replied.

"He has no sister who is an old lady. I mean Alfred."

"Alfred?" he almost yelped. "Alfred here!"

"Of course he is here. Is not his battalion quartered at Gibraltar? You knew it; we were to meet him here!"

"I didn't, indeed—or I should never have come!" he protested.

"Don't let us waste words now. He is here; he will demand an explanation from you. He has his pistol with him—I could tell by the bulge under his coat. We must both face him; and the question is, What are you going to say?"

Peter thrust his hands through his carefully-parted hair:

"Say?" he repeated. "I shall tell him the simple, straightforward truth. I shall frankly admit that we have walked, and sat, and talked together; but I shall assure him, as I can honestly, that during the whole course of our acquaintance I have never once regarded you in any other light but that of a friend."

"And you suppose that, knowing how I have changed, he will believe that!" she cried. "He will fire long before you can finish one of those fine sentences!"

"In that case," suggested Peter, "why tell him anything at all? Why not spare him, poor fellow, at all events for the time? It will only upset him just now. Let him suppose that we are strangers to one another; and you can break the truth to him gently when you reach England, you know. I 'm sure that's much the more sensible plan!"

She broke into strange mirthless laughter.

"Your prudence comes too late," she said. "You forget that the truth was broken to him some days ago, in the letter I wrote from Brindisi."

"You wrote and broke it to him at Brindisi!" cried Peter. "What induced you to do that?"

"Why, you!" she retorted. "You insisted that it was due to him; and though I knew better than you what the effect would be, I dared not tell you the whole truth. I wanted to end the engagement, too; and I scarcely cared then what consequences might follow. Now they are upon us, and it is useless to try to escape them. Since we must die, let us go up on deck and get it over!"

"One moment," he said; "Alfred can wait a little. I—I must go to my cabin first, and put on a clean collar."

And with this rather flimsy pretext, he again made his escape. He made up his mind what to do as he rushed towards his cabin. He could hardly have been anything like an hour on board the Boomerang as yet; he had to get through at least another three before he could hope for deliverance. His only chance was to barricade himself inside his cabin, and steadfastly refuse to come out, upon any consideration whatever, until he was released by the natural expiration of time.

He sped down the passage, and found, to his horror, that he had forgotten the number of his berth. However, he knew where it ought to be, and darted into an open door, which he fastened securely with hook and bolt, and sank breathless on one of the lower berths.

"You seem in a hurry, my friend!" said a voice opposite; and Peter's eyes, unused at first to the comparative dimness, perceived that a big man was sitting on the opposite berth, engaged in putting on a pair of spiked cricket-shoes. He had bolted himself inside the cabin with Mr. Perkins!