“It was, as I began by saying, more exactly like the Louis Cheviot I know than a whole book of biography might be. It’s because he’s precisely like that to this day that I was so surprised when he let me go off without a word, because, you see, he’d been ‘sort o’ watchman’ for us, too. It’s easier to believe that nothing else will do for him but just to see you through.” She turned her head, and her grasp on the railing tightened—nothing else had done! For that figure outlined against the sky—no use any longer that he turns his collar up above his ears, no efficient mask any more the arctic cap. That was the “watchman” yonder on the bridge, standing guard over the fortunes of Hildegarde Mar! “What’s the matter? What _is_ it?” asked Mrs. Locke. “Only—only that the most wonderful thing that ever happened is happening right now.” “What’s happening?” “The man I’ve been telling you about—he’s there!” “Not that one on the bridge!” “Hush. ’Sh. Don’t stir. I must be very quiet.” “Because you aren’t sure?” “Because I am. Oh-h—” Mrs. Locke looked steadily into Hildegarde’s face for an instant, before she turned away. The girl leaned forward. “No, no. It’s not _that_,” she said, and from under the brim of her hat she sent another glance to the figure against the sky. “He’s made a lot of money in the North—he has all kinds of business interests up here.” “How long have you known he was on board?” “I almost think that in the back of my head I suspected before, but I didn’t know till last night. And I wasn’t _sure_ till this minute,” she added, with girl’s logic. “You haven’t spoken at all—you two?” Hildegarde shook her head. “Why do you think he wants to spy on you?” “Oh, Louis doesn’t want to _spy_.” Her tone convicted the suggestion of rank absurdity. “I told you he’s been dreadfully angry. Too angry to write. Perhaps too angry to speak.” Was that it? Again the upward glance. “But”—she clutched at the inalienable comfort—“it’s Louis Cheviot.” “Well, don’t be too certain this time, that’s all.” Not be certain? But that was just what she must be. Another quick look, and lo! the bridge was empty. “I’m quite, quite sure—but I—I’ll just go and see.” He was standing near the door of the chart-room. As Hildegarde’s head came up the figure vanished. When she reached the threshold there it was, back turned to the door, cap bent over a map. Incredible to her now that she hadn’t known him all along; but, nevertheless, she stood wavering, seized by something else than mere excitement—a wholly unexpected shyness. Was he indeed nursing that old anger against her? Was it conceivable he wanted to avoid her the whole voyage? She half turned back, telling herself that at all events something was the matter with her tongue—it was a physical impossibility for her to speak. Then the next thing was, she heard her own voice saying quite steadily, with even a faint ring of defiance, “It’s no use! I’ve found you out!”