It had been more than a question of his life or the other’s.  Her fate had been involved in that critical moment.  He had dragged the unconscious figure to the shadows behind a life-boat.  They would not be likely to stumble across the incriminating evidence while it was dark.  Nor was it likely that the foreman’s absence below would cause the men to look for him.  The overworked stokers would be but too pleased to escape, for a spell, their tyrannous master.

Mr. Heatherbloom, standing near the threshold of the dressing-room, glanced now toward the little French clock without.  Over four hours yet to port!  How slowly time went.  He turned out all the lights, save one shaded lamp of low candle-power in the cabin; then he did the same in the room where the girl was.  No one must peer in on him from unexpected places.  He looked up, and saw that the skylights were covered with canvas.  Mr. Heatherbloom remained in the salon; he needed to continue master of his thoughts.  In the dressing-room he had just now forgotten himself.  That would not do; he must concentrate all his faculties, every energy, to bringing this coup, born on the inspiration of the moment, to a successful conclusion.  Desperate as his plan was, he believed now he would win out.  By the vibrations he knew the boat was still steaming full speed on her new course.  The conditions were all favorable.  They would reach port before dawn; at break of day the health officers would come aboard.  And after that—­

The telephone suddenly rang.  Should he answer that imperious summons?  Perhaps the man who had just knocked at the door had been one of the officers, or the captain himself, come in person to speak with his excellency about the unexpected change in the boat’s course, or some technical question or difficulty that might have arisen in consequence thereof.

He looked toward the recess; between the curtains he caught sight of the prince’s eyes and in the dim light he fancied they shone with sudden hope—­expectancy.  The nobleman must have heard the crashing of the door to the dressing-room.  What he had thought was of no moment.  A viperish fervor replaced that other brief expression in his excellency’s gaze.

Once more that metallic call—­harsh, loud, as not to be denied!  Mr. Heatherbloom made up his mind; perhaps all depended on his decision; he would answer.  Stepping across the salon, he took down the receivers.  The singing on the wires had been pronounced; he could imitate the prince’s autocratic tones, and the person at the other end would not discover, in all likelihood, the deception.

“Well?” said Mr. Heatherbloom loudly, in French.  “What do you want?  Haven’t I given orders not to be—­”

His voice died away; he nearly dropped the receivers.  A woman answered.  Moreover, the wires did not seem to “sing” so much now.  Sonia Turgeinov’s tones were transmitted in all their intrinsic, flute-like lucidity.