“Tut, tut, Manderton,” said the Chief, raising his hand to silence the other; “you run on too fast, my friend! I wish,” he went on, changing the subject, “I could be with you at Harkings to-morrow to witness your reconstruction of the crime, Manderton. You’ll go, I suppose, Greve?” “I certainly shall,” answered the barrister, “I have had some experience of criminals, but I must say I never saw one less endowed with criminal characteristics than little Jeekes. A strange character!...” The Chief laughed sardonically. “Anyway,” he remarked, “he had a damn good notion of the end that befitted him ...” It was a still, starry night. The Flushing boat stood out of harbour on a calm sea. The high arc lamps threw a blue gleam over the deserted moles and glinted in the oily swell lapping the quays. From the fast-receding quayside the rasping of a winch echoed noisily across the silent water. On the upper deck of the mail-boat Robin Greve and Mary Trevert stood side by side at the rail. They had the deck to themselves. Above their heads on the bridge the captain stood immobile, a square black figure, the helmsman at his elbow. Otherwise, between the stars and the sea, the man and the girl were alone. Thus they had stood ever since the mail-boat had cast off from the quay. Robin had made some banal attempt at conversation, urging (but without much sincerity) that, after her experiences of the day, the girl should go to her cabin and rest. But Mary Trevert had merely shaken her head impatiently, without speaking. Presently he put his arm through hers. He felt against his wrist the warm softness of her travelling-coat, and it seemed to him that, though the girl made no sign, some slight answering pressure met his touch. So they leaned upon the rail for a space watching the water fall hissing from the vessel’s side as the steamer, jarring and quivering, met the long steady roll from the open sea. Then Mary Trevert spoke. “Robin,” she said gently, “I owe you an apology ...” Robin Greve looked at her quickly. But Mary had her eyes fixed seaward in contemplation of a distant light that flared and died with persistent regularity. “My dear,” he answered, “I’ve only myself to blame. When you told me you were going to marry Hartley Parrish, I should have known that you had your reasons and that those reasons were good. I should have held my tongue ...” This time the girl stole a glance at him. But now he was gazing away to the horizon where the light came and went. “All this misunderstanding between us,” he went on, “came about because of what I said in the billiard-room that afternoon ...” The girl shook her head resolutely.