And at last the woman's vanity was satisfied; it was thrown a sop that would suffice for its eternal greed. Luke had done this thing for her. She was quick enough to guess how and why, for she knew Willie Carr. She knew that good ships are thrown away for money's sake. The Croonah had been thrown away for her sake--the Croonah, the patient, obedient servant to Luke's slightest word, almost an animal in its mechanical intelligence, filling that place in the sailor's heart that some men reserve for their horses and others for their wives. Women have been jealous of a ship before now. Eve was jealous of the Terrific; Agatha had always been jealous of the Croonah. And now the ship had been thrown away for her, and with his ship Luke had cast away his unrivalled reputation as a seaman, his honour as a gentleman, his conscience. He was a criminal, a thief, a murderer for Agatha's sake. She, true to her school, to her generation, to her training, was proud of it; for she was one of those unhappy women who will not have their lovers love honour more. There was a sudden roar far down in the bowels of the vessel, and immediately volumes of steam issued from every skylight. The inrushing sea had broken down the bulk-heads, the water had reached the engine-rooms. In an instant Luke was alive to the danger--the good sailor that was within the man all awake. His trained ears and the tread of his feet on the deck told him that the screw was still. "Come," he cried to Agatha, "you must get away in the next boat." But Agatha resisted his arm. That which had hitherto been mere pertness in her manner and carriage had suddenly grown into a strong determination. The woman was cool and fearless. "Not without you," she answered. "I will not leave the ship until you do." "I must stay till the last," he said. She looked at him with a little smile, for women love courage, though it sometimes frightens them. She never dreamt of danger to either of them. Her trust in Luke was all-sufficient, without reserve, without hesitation. "Then I will stay too." For a moment his iron nerve--a nerve which had deliberately planned all this destruction--wavered. "Why did you not let me know you were coming?" he asked desperately. "I had no time," she answered, with a singular shortness, for she could not tell him that a letter from Mrs. Harrington to her mother--the companion to that received by Luke at Valetta--had brought about this sudden decision. She could not tell him that, egged on by a transparent hint from Mrs. Harrington that Luke was to be her heir, she and her mother had taken the first boat to Malta; that she had deliberately planned to marry him for the money that was to be his. Such a confession was impossible at that time; with his arms still round her, the mere thought of it nauseated her. For a moment, she saw herself as others had seen her--a punishment which for some women is quite sufficient.