“We hope not, don’t we, Dorothy?  What boat do you honor, and what date?”

Mrs. Marteen hesitated.  “I’m not sure.  The Bermudian sails this week.  If I cannot go then, and that is possible, I may take the Cecelia, and make the Caribbean trip.  It’s a little longer, but on my return I would join Dorothy and Mrs. Trevor, crossing directly from Bermuda to Florida.  It’s absurd, isn’t it, to play the invalid!  But insomnia is really getting its hold on me.  A good sleep would be a novelty just now, and bromides depress me, so—­there you are!  I suppose I must take the doctor’s advice and my maid, and fly for my health’s sake.”

In spite of the natural tone and her apparent frankness, Gard remained unconvinced.  He could not have explained why.  All his life he had found his intuitions superior to his logical deductions.  They had led him to his present exalted position and had kept him there.  No sooner had this inner self refused to accept Mrs. Marteen’s story than his mind began supplying reasons for her departure—­and the very first held him spellbound.  Was it another move in her perpetual game?  Was she on the track of someone’s secret?  Was her scheming mind now following some new clew that must lead to the discovery of a hidden or forgotten crime—­the burial place of some well entombed family skeleton?  He shivered.

Mrs. Marteen observed him narrowly.

“Mr. Gard is cold, Dorothy.  Send for the tea, dear—­or will you have something else?  Really, you look like the patient who should seek climate and rest.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said slowly.  “Perhaps I will go—­perhaps with you.  It would be pleasant to have your society for so many weeks, uninterrupted and almost alone.  I’ll think of it—­if I can arrange my affairs.”

He had been watching her closely, and seemed to surprise in the depths of her eyes and the slow assuming of her impenetrable manner, that his suggestion was far from receiving approval.

“But, my dear sir,” she answered, “much as that would be my pleasure, would it be wise for you?  Everyone tells me the next few weeks will be crucial.  Your presence may be needed in Washington.”

“Well, I suppose it will,” he retorted almost angrily.  “But I’ve a pretty good idea what the result will be, and my sails are trimmed.”

“Then do come,” she invited cordially; “it will be delightful!” She had read the meaning of his tone; knew quite as well as he that her words had brought home to him the impossibility of his leaving.  She could afford to be pressing.

More and more convinced of some ulterior motive in Mrs. Marteen’s departure, his irritation made him gruff.  Even Dorothy, seeing his ill-temper, retired to the far corner of the room, and eyed him with surprise above her embroidery.  Feeling the discord of his present mood, he rose to take his leave.

“Do arrange to come,” smiled Mrs. Marteen, with just a touch of irony in her clear voice.