"No, pardon me, I do not know it, for I do not know you. . . . I
never saw you before." She leaned her hand carelessly on the bulwarks.

He was shocked, but he drew himself together. Their eyes were intent on
each other. "You do know me! Need I tell you that I am Boyd Madras?"
"Boyd Madras," she said, musing coldly. "A peculiar name."

"Mercy Madras was your name until you called yourself Mrs. Falchion," he
urged indignantly, yet anxiously too.

"It suits you to be mysterious, Mr.--ah yes, Mr. Boyd Madras; but,
really, you might be less exacting in your demands upon one's
imagination." Her look was again on him casually.

He spoke breathlessly. "Mercy--Mercy--for God's sake, don't treat me
like this! Oh, my wife, I have wronged you every way, but I loved you
always--love you now. I have only followed you to ask you to forgive me,
after all these years. I saw you in Colombo just before you came on
board, and I felt that I must come also. You never loved me. Perhaps
that is better for you, but you do not know what I suffer. If you could
give me a chance, and come with me to America--anywhere, and let me start
the world again? I can--travel straight now, and I will work hard, and be
honest. I will--" But here sudden pain brought back the doubt concerning
his life and its possibilities.

He leaned against the bulwarks, and made a helpless, despairing motion
with his hand. "No, no!" he said; and added with a bitter laugh: "Not
to begin the world again, but to end it as profitably and silently as I
can. . . . But you will listen to me, my wife? You will say at least
that you forgive me the blight and ill I brought upon you?"