"Who is this man?" the high, breathless voice demanded. "Which--which is
Mr. Nat Verney?"
Rudd looked down at her through narrowed eyes. He was smiling--a small,
bitter smile.
"Waal, Miss Mortimer," he began, "I reckon you have first right to
know----"
She turned from him imperiously.
"You tell me," she commanded Norton.
Norton looked genuinely uncomfortable, and, probably in consequence, he
answered her with a gruffness that sounded brutal.
"It was West. He has been arrested. His own fault entirely. No one would
have suspected him if he hadn't been a fool, and given his own show
away."
"He wasn't a fool!" Cynthia flashed back fiercely. "He was my friend!"
"I shouldn't be in too great a hurry to claim that distinction,"
remarked Rudd. "He's about the best-known rascal in the two
hemispheres."
But Cynthia did not wait to hear him. She had slipped past, and was
gone.
In her own cabin at last, she bolted the door and tore open that packet
connected with his profession which he had given her the night before.
It contained a roll of notes to the value of a hundred pounds, wrapped
in a sheet of notepaper on which was scrawled a single line: "With
apologies from the man who swindled you."
There was no signature of any sort. None was needed! When Cynthia
finally left her cabin an hour later, her eyes were bright with that
brightness which comes from the shedding of many tears.
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