He had said all he dared to say—­and he perceived that he was not believed.  This had not happened to him for years.  It had never happened.  It bewildered him as if he had suddenly discovered that he was no longer himself.  He had come to them and had said:  “I mean well by you.  I am Tom Lingard—­” and they did not believe!  Before such scepticism he was helpless, because he had never imagined it possible.  He had said:  “You are in the way of my work.  You are in the way of what I can not give up for any one; but I will see you through all safe if you will only trust me—­me, Tom Lingard.”  And they would not believe him!  It was intolerable.  He imagined himself sweeping their disbelief out of his way.  And why not?  He did not know them, he did not care for them, he did not even need to lift his hand against them!  All he had to do was to shut his eyes now for a day or two, and afterward he could forget that he had ever seen them.  It would be easy.  Let their disbelief vanish, their folly disappear, their bodies perish. . . .  It was that—­or ruin!

III

Lingard’s gaze, detaching itself from the silent sea, travelled slowly over the silent figures clustering forward, over the faces of the seamen attentive and surprised, over the faces never seen before yet suggesting old days—­his youth—­other seas—­the distant shores of early memories.  Mr. Travers gave a start also, and the hand which had been busy with his left whisker went into the pocket of his jacket, as though he had plucked out something worth keeping.  He made a quick step toward Lingard.

“I don’t see my way to utilize your services,” he said, with cold finality.

Lingard, grasping his beard, looked down at him thoughtfully for a short time.

“Perhaps it’s just as well,” he said, very slowly, “because I did not offer my services.  I’ve offered to take you on board my brig for a few days, as your only chance of safety.  And you asked me what were my motives.  My motives!  If you don’t see them they are not for you to know.”

And these men who, two hours before had never seen each other, stood for a moment close together, antagonistic, as if they had been life-long enemies, one short, dapper and glaring upward, the other towering heavily, and looking down in contempt and anger.

Mr. d’Alcacer, without taking his eyes off them, bent low over the deck chair.

“Have you ever seen a man dashing himself at a stone wall?” he asked, confidentially.

“No,” said Mrs. Travers, gazing straight before her above the slow flutter of the fan.  “No, I did not know it was ever done; men burrow under or slip round quietly while they look the other way.”

“Ah! you define diplomacy,” murmured d’Alcacer.  “A little of it here would do no harm.  But our picturesque visitor has none of it.  I’ve a great liking for him.”

“Already!” breathed out Mrs. Travers, with a smile that touched her lips with its bright wing and was flown almost before it could be seen.