Now, given certain definite circumstances, an honest man and a rogue will always view them differently. David had interpreted the girl's guarded phrases in the light of his villainous compact with Coke. Dickey, unaware of this disturbing element, was inwardly amazed to learn that Verity had lied so outrageously with the sole object of carrying through a commercial enterprise. "'Tell him I shall marry him when the _Andromeda_ returns to England from South America,'" he read. And again . . . "'The vessel is due back at the end of September, I believe, so Mr. Bulmer will not have long to wait.'" If, in the first instance, David had not been swept off his feet by the magnitude of the catastrophe, if he had not commenced the series of prevarications before the letter reached him, he might have adopted the only sane course and taken Bulmer fully into his confidence. It was too late now. Explanation was useless. The only plea that occurred to him was more deadly than silence, since it was her knowledge of the contemplated crime that made Iris a stowaway. He had never guessed how that knowledge was attained and the added mystery intensified his torture. Dickey rose from the table. His movements showed his age that night. "I'll think it over, David," he said. "There's more in this than meets the eye. I'll just go home an' think it over. Mebbe I'll call at your place in the mornin'." So here was Verity, awaiting Bulmer's visit as a criminal awaits a hangman. There was no shred of hope in his mind that his one-time crony would raise a finger to save him from bankruptcy. Some offenses are unforgivable, and high in the list ranks the folly of separating a wealthy old man from his promised bride. Now that a reprieve was seemingly impossible, he faced his misfortunes with a dour courage. It had been a difficult and thankless task during the past month to stave off pressing creditors. With Iris in Bootle and Bulmer her devoted slave, Verity would have weathered the gale with jaunty self-confidence. But that element of strength was lacking; nay, more, he felt in his heart that it could never be replaced. He was no longer the acute, blustering, effusive Verity, who in one summer's afternoon had secured a rich partner and forced an impecunious sailor to throw away a worn-out ship. The insurance held good, of course, and there simply _must_ be some sort of tidings of the _Andromeda_ to hand before the end of September. Yet things had gone wrong, desperately wrong, and he was quaking with the belief that there was worse in store. He began to read his letters. They were mostly in the same vein, duns, more or less active. His managing clerk entered. "There's an offer of 5s. 6d. Cardiff to Bilbao and Bilbao to the Tyne for the _Hellespont_. It is better than nothing. Shall we take it, sir?" The _Hellespont_ was the firm's other ship. She, too, was old and running at a loss. "Yes. Wot is it, coal or patent fuel?"