Larpent was stolidly awaiting him in the saloon, and they sat down
together. Usually Toby stood behind his master's chair, and the vacant
place oppressed Saltash. He talked jerkily, with uneasy intervals of
silence.

Larpent talked not at all beyond the demands of ordinary courtesy. He ate
well, drank sparingly, and when not listening to Saltash's somewhat
spasmodic conversation appeared immersed in thought. When the meal was
over, he refused coffee, and rose to go on deck.

Then, abruptly, Saltash stayed him. "Larpent, wait a minute--unless
you're in a hurry! Have a cigar with me!"

Larpent paused, looking across at the dark, restless face with the air of
a man making a minute calculation. "Shall we smoke on deck, my lord?" he
said at length.

Saltash sprang up as though he moved on wires. "Yes, all right. Get the
cigars, Murray!" he commanded the steward; and to Larpent as the man went
to obey, "That's decent of you. Thought you were going to refuse. I was
damned offensive a while back. Accept my apologies! Fact is--I'm fed up
with this show. Sorry if I disappoint you, but I'm going home."

"You never disappoint me, my lord," said Larpent, with his enigmatical
smile.

Saltash gave him a keen look and uttered a laugh that was also not
without its edge. "I like you, Larpent," he said. "You always tell the
truth. Well, let's go! We shan't make Jamaica this trip, but it doesn't
matter. In any case, it's a shame to miss the spring in England."