Page:The Strand Magazine (Volume 42).djvu/494

I frankly admit that the idea first came into my head because of the similarity of the cases; Mrs. Brookes had once been a single lady on a yachting cruise, and here was Marianne Tracy—she took pains to explain exactly how "Marianne" ought to be spelt—occupying precisely the same position. Of course, that was merely a coincidence; lots of single ladies go on yachting cruises, and they are all of them charming and respectable; and beyond that coincidence there was nothing, absolutely nothing. She bore no physical resemblance, from what I remembered, to Mrs. Brookes. I had only seen that lady once, and that was at her wedding, and I had a more or less vague recollection that she had fair hair, which matched her complexion, and that she was tall and slender, and, to my mind, uncomfortably prim; just the colourless sort of person one would expect Mr. Brookes to marry. Miss Tracy was black as night—black hair, black eyes, black eyebrows, and even the faintest shadow of what might be a black moustache. She was no taller than I was, but she was much plumper, and she was full of vivacity and high spirits; and as for prim—I do not wish to do the lady an injustice, but even by abuse of language one could not call her prim. She was hail fellow with everyone on board—the officers, the passengers, the stewards, the crew, and, I dare say, the stokers down below; she had a knack of making friends with everyone with whom she came in contact. Seeing, as I do, a great deal more than many people suppose, I was not a little tickled by some of the conversations in which I saw her take a very active part. She was a flirt. Before we were out of the Bay I believe that most of the male creatures on board, of all sorts and kinds, were under the impression that she was in love with them.

It was that faculty which I possess of seeing so much more than many folks guess which caused my vague suspicion to take, by degrees, a very concrete form. It was the evening on which we were leaving Gibraltar, where we had spent the day. Most gorgeous weather—the sky was ablaze with stars. I was prowling about the ship when, in a corner on the lower deck, I came upon an individual the sight of whom gave me quite a start. He was in a steward's uniform, but I had certainly never seen him on board before. Whatever his duties might be, they had never brought him into the passengers' saloons; I should have recognized him on the instant if they had. His was a face which, once seen by an observant pair of eyes like mine, was not likely to be forgotten, even after a lapse of eighteen months—and that period of time had passed since I had seen him.

The last, and first, time I had beheld that gentleman was at Charing Cross Railway Station on the afternoon on which Mrs. Everard Brookes had disappointed her husband by vanishing on the eve of their honeymoon. He was the individual who had hurried up to a masculine acquaintance and told him, right in front of me, that someone feminine had "done a bunk all right," and was "away with the best of the swag"; and had handed him what he called "her brief," and which had seemed to me to be a Continental railway-ticket. There was no mistaking those freckles and that flaming moustache—or, indeed, the man as a whole.

My surprise at seeing him there was so great that for some seconds I did not realize whom he was talking to; then I saw that it was Miss Marianne Tracy; and, as I watched what they were saying, I began to understand. He said to her:—

"The best of the old girl's things he takes care of; those diamonds and pearls which we got the office about, which the old girl flashes around, are in a bag which he keeps in his locker. Some of the girls' things are in it too; I dropped into the cabin as if by accident the other morning, and I saw him put them into his bag."

The man winked at her when he said "by accident"; I have no doubt that Miss Tracy grasped his meaning. I had had no intention of playing the spy—I had made no attempt to conceal myself; so that when Miss Tracy looked round, as she did just at that moment, she saw me at once. With perfect presence of mind she came straight up to me.

"Taking a stroll about the ship, Miss Lee?"

I do not know what possessed me; I do sometimes yield to impulse, and I did then. This person did seem to me to be such an impudent piece of goods that, without counting the cost, I felt bound to have a shot at her—and I did then and there. I looked her very straight in the face, and with what I am sure was the most perfect civility I asked her a question.

"Aren't you Mrs. Everard Brookes?"

She did not change countenance—the baggage! She must have had a front of brass. She just looked at me inquiringly, and she smiled, and she said:—

"So! We have met before, Miss Lee!"

She put her lips together, and she gave a