'I've not been on board before,' she answered.

This struck me in passing as odd; but then I had only too few details
from Davies about his days at Norderney in September.

'Of course, _that_ is what puzzled me,' she exclaimed, suddenly,
pointing to the mizzen. 'I knew there was something different.'

Davies had belayed the painter, and now had to explain the origin of
the mizzen. This was a cumbrous process, and his hearer's attention
soon wandered from the subject and became centred in him--his was
already more than half in her--and the result was a golden
opportunity for the discerning onlooker. It was very brief, but I
made the most of it; buried deep a few regrets, did a little
heartfelt penance, told myself I had been a cynical fool not to have
foreseen this, and faced the new situation with a sinking heart; I am
not ashamed to admit that, for I was fond of Davies, and I was keen
about the quest.

She had never been a guilty agent in that attempt on Davies. Had she
been an unconscious tool or only an unwilling one? If the latter, did
she know the secret we were seeking? In the last degree unlikely, I
decided. But, true to the compact, whose importance I now fully
appreciated, I flung aside my diplomatic weapons, recoiling, as
strongly, or nearly as strongly, let us say, from any effort direct
or indirect to gain information from such a source. It was not our
fault if by her own conversation and behaviour she gave us some idea
of how matters stood. Davies already knew more than I did.

We spent a few minutes on deck while she asked eager questions about