Gilbert Ledoux, a reserved man evidently descended from generations of
thinking people, was apparently worried, for his face bore unmistakable
signs of some mental disturbance. Paul Zalenska was struck by the
haunted expression of what must naturally have been a grave countenance.
It was not guilt, for he had not the face of a man pursued by
conscience, but it certainly was fear--a real fear. And Paul wondered.

As for the Count de Roannes, the Boy dismissed him at once as unworthy
of further consideration. He was brilliantly, even artificially
polished--glaringly ultra-fashionable, ostentatiously polite and suave.
In the lines of his bestial face he bore the records of a lifetime's
profligacy and the black tales of habitual self-indulgence. Paul hated
him instinctively and wondered how a man of Ledoux's unmistakable
refinement could tolerate him for a moment.

It was not until the middle of the following afternoon that Opal Ledoux
appeared on deck, when her father, with an air of pride, mingled with a
certain curious element of timidity, presented to her in due form both
the Englishman and his friend.

The eyes of the two young people flashed a recognition that the lips of
each tacitly denied as they responded conventionally to the
introduction.

Paul noticed that the shadow of her father's uneasiness was reflected
upon her in a somewhat lesser but all too evident degree. And again he
wondered.

A few moments of desultory conversation that was of no interest to
Paul--and then the Count proposed a game of _écarté_, to which Verdayne