'Good morning,' he said. 'Beautiful sunrise, isn't it?' The clever and calculated insolence of his tone cut her like a lash as she lay bound in the chair. Like all people who have lived easy and joyous lives in those fair regions where gold smoothes every crease and law keeps a tight hand on disorder, she found it hard to realize that there were other regions where gold was useless and law without power. Twenty-four hours ago she would have declared it impossible that such an experience as she had suffered could happen to anyone; she would have talked airily about civilization and the nineteenth century, and progress and the police. But her experience was teaching her that human nature remains always the same, and that beneath the thin crust of security on which we good citizens exist the dark and secret forces of crime continue to move, just as they did in the days when you couldn't go from Cheapside to Chelsea without being set upon by thieves. Her experience was in a fair way to teach her this lesson better than she could have learnt it even in the bureaux of the detective police of Paris, London, and St Petersburg.
'Good morning,' the man repeated, and she glanced at him with a sullen, angry gaze.
'You!' she exclaimed, 'You, Mr Thomas Jackson, if that is your name! Loose me from this chair, and I will talk to you.' Her eyes flashed as she spoke, and the contempt in them added mightily to her beauty. Mr Thomas Jackson, otherwise Jules, erstwhile head waiter at the Grand Babylon, considered himself a connoisseur in feminine loveliness, and the vision of Nella Racksole smote him like an exquisite blow.
'With pleasure,' he replied. 'I had forgotten that to prevent you from falling I had secured you to the chair'; and with a quick movement he unfastened the band. Nella stood up, quivering with fiery annoyance and scorn.
'Now,' she said, fronting him, 'what is the meaning of this?'
'You fainted,' he replied imperturbably. 'Perhaps you don't remember.'
The man offered her a deck-chair with a characteristic gesture.
Nella was obliged to acknowledge, in spite of herself, that the fellow had distinction, an air of breeding. No one would have guessed that for twenty years he had been an hotel waiter. His long, lithe figure, and easy, careless carriage seemed to be the figure and carriage of an aristocrat, and his voice was quiet, restrained, and authoritative.
'That has nothing to do with my being carried off in this yacht of yours.'
'It is not my yacht,' he said, 'but that is a minor detail. As to the more important matter, forgive me that I remind you that only a few hours ago you were threatening a lady in my house with a revolver.'
'Then it was your house?'
'Why not? May I not possess a house?' He smiled.
'I must request you to put the yacht about at once, instantly, and take me back.' She tried to speak firmly.
'Ah!' he said, 'I am afraid that's impossible. I didn't put out to sea with the intention of returning at once, instantly.' In the last words he gave a faint imitation of her tone.
'When I do get back,' she said, 'when my father gets to know of this affair, it will be an exceedingly bad day for you, Mr Jackson.'
'But supposing your father doesn't hear of it - '
'What?'
'Supposing you never get back?'
'Do you mean, then, to have my murder on your conscience?'
'Talking of murder,' he said, 'you came very near to murdering my friend, Miss Spencer. At least, so she tells me.'
'Is Miss Spencer on board?' Nella asked, seeing perhaps a faint ray of hope in the possible presence of a woman.
'Miss Spencer is not on board. There is no one on board except you and myself and a small crew - a very discreet crew, I may add.'
'I will have nothing more to say to you. You must take your own course.'
Thanks for the permission,' he said. 'I will send you up some breakfast.'
