"But, Edith," remonstrated Miss Porter, "why do you want me to go to the steamer? You can write and tell him that you have changed your mind."
"No, no; it's cruel to let him read that note of mine and then get another note from me taking it all back. Now, do go. I have such a strong intuition that I have made a mistake. I don't think he cares for me as he vows he does, and his tastes are wholly different from mine. Now go; take a cab."
Edith gave one final imploring glance in Miss Porter's direction, and then darted out into the middle of the street, toward a cable-car which had stopped at her signal.
A few moments later, Miss Porter, characteristically disregarding the expensive cab advice, got into a cross-town car and jogged thoughtfully over to the West Side. From the terminus she walked up to Twenty-seventh Street. It was not a pleasant walk; but the thought that she compared most favorably with any faithful friend of the other sex cheered Miss Porter's uneven path over rough cobblestones and past forbidding warehouses.
As she walked down the long pier, fragrant with licorice and other South American products, an unpleasant thought assailed her. Who could tell how long she might be forced to wait for the festive Mr. Verdenal? Might he not prolong his farewell ceremonies until cock-crow?
Notwithstanding these cheerless forebodings, Miss Porter walked resolutely up the gang-plank and sat down on the deck of the clean white steamer.
There was an unusually heavy cargo to be shipped South, and, late as it was, great trucks and wagons came rolling down the pier with freight to be loaded into the hold.
One of the ship's officers appeared on the deck, and, as he was pacing slowly by her, Miss Porter stopped him to explain that she was waiting to see a Mr. Verdenal who expected to come aboard that night. She also asked if it would be possible to ascertain whether a special delivery letter addressed to Mr. Verdenal had been received on the steamer. The officer sent some one below to inquire. Presently the man returned to say that there were several letters awaiting Mr. Verdenal, but none of them bore a special delivery stamp.
After this information, and while Miss Porter was strolling restlessly toward the forward end of the deck, there was a sound of light wheels rolling down the pier. She turned quickly and walked over to the deck-rail. A hansom had paused at the gang-plank, and two men got out. One of them she recognized as Paul. He and his companion hurried up the gangway, and before she had time to reach them they were on their way down into the saloon.
She waited on deck, slightly annoyed at the delay, but secure in the knowledge that Edith's letter had not yet been delivered.
Presently they were heard coming up the stairs, but Paul went to his stateroom, and the friend came out on deck alone, sitting down not far from Miss Porter. While she sat there in the half-light, wishing herself well out of the affair, and wondering when Paul would emerge again, he shot suddenly out of the cabin and across the deck to where his friend was sitting.
"It's all right, Jim, old fellow," Miss Porter heard him say. "I wasn't at all sure. But it went, after all, straight as water through a sluice-box. The matter's clinched now."
Then, to the amazement of Miss Porter, Paul executed a sort of clog-dance in front of his friend, who evidently had seen enough of that sort of thing at the music-hall; for he seized Paul by the arm, took the pipe from between his own lips, and growled out:
"Well, keep your hair on, old man. You're not the first fish that's been hooked."
Miss Porter fancied from this, to her, half-foreign language, that Paul had received good news from some business venture; and, rising, she walked to the other end of the deck, until he should be quiet enough to behave like a rational being.
It was getting late, and as no messenger had come aboard since her arrival, it seemed to her foolhardy to wait until the delivery of the letter. She concluded, therefore, that she would pledge Paul upon his honor to return to Edith, unopened, the letter for which she had come. This required tactful handling, and she was mentally rehearsing an opening plea, when she heard quick steps behind her. Turning, she faced Paul Verdenal.
"You? Miss Porter!" he exclaimed; then he swiftly concealed his overpowering amazement, like the well-bred man he was. "The steward just told me that there was a lady who had been waiting to see me for some time, but I could not imagine who it could be."
