“I’m a-tellin’ you, man,” he was saying, “that there wan’t nothin’ else to be done, an’ I’m a-gettin’ damn sick o’ hearin’ you finding fault all the time with the way I been a-runnin’ o’ this little job.”

“I’m not finding fault, Simms,” returned another voice which the girl recognized immediately as Divine’s; “although I do think that it was a mistake to so totally disable the Lotus as you did.  Why, how on earth are we ever to return to civilization if that boat is lost?  Had she been simply damaged a little, in a way that they could themselves have fixed up, the delay would have been sufficient to permit us to escape, and then, when Miss Harding was returned in safety to her father, after our marriage, they would have been so glad to be reunited that he easily could have been persuaded to drop the matter.  Then another thing; you intended to demand a ransom for both Miss Harding and myself, to carry out the fiction of my having been stolen also—­how can you do that if Mr. Harding be dead?  And do you suppose for a moment that Miss Harding will leave a single stone unturned to bring the guilty to justice if any harm has befallen her father or his guests?  If so you do not know her as well as I.”

The girl turned away from the partition, her face white and drawn, her eyes inexpressibly sad.  She rose to her feet, facing Theriere.

“I have heard quite enough, thank you, Mr. Theriere,” she said.

“You are convinced then that I am your friend?” he asked.

“I am convinced that Mr. Divine is not,” she replied non-committally.

She took a step toward the door.  Theriere stood looking at her.  She was unquestionably very good to look at.  He could not remember ever having seen a more beautiful girl.  A great desire to seize her in his arms swept over the man.  Theriere had not often made any effort to harness his desires.  What he wanted it had been his custom to take—­by force if necessary.  He took a step toward Barbara Harding.  There was a sudden light in his eyes that the girl had not before seen there, and she reached quickly toward the knob of the door.

Theriere was upon her, and then, quickly, he mastered himself, for he recalled his coolly thought-out plan based on what Divine had told him of that clause in the will of the girl’s departed grandparent which stipulated that the man who shared the bequest with her must be the choice of both herself and her father.  He could afford to bide his time, and play the chivalrous protector before he essayed the role of lover.

Barbara had turned a half-frightened look toward him as he advanced—­in doubt as to his intentions.

“Pardon me, Miss Harding,” he said; “the door is bolted—­ let me unlatch it for you,” and very gallantly he did so, swinging the portal wide that she might pass out.  “I feared interruption,” he said, in explanation of the bolt.