Shafts of red and green wavered and quaked in the black dock waters.

Between the hulks of cork- and salt-freighters, the steam yacht Isis slipped with as graceful a motion as that of the gulls.  Then when the anchor chains ran gratingly out, Benton turned on his heel and went to his cabin.

Behind a bolted door he dropped into a chair and sat motionless.  Finally the right hand wandered mechanically to his breast pocket and brought out the envelope.  He read for the thousandth time the endorsement in the corner.

“Not to be opened until the evening of March 5th,” and under that, “I love you.”

There was another envelope; an outer one much rubbed from the pocket.  It was directed in her hand and the blurred postmark bore a date in February.  He could have described every mark upon the enclosing cover with the precision of a careful detective.  When his impatient fingers had first torn off the end, only to be confronted by the order:  “Not to be opened until the evening of March 5th,” he had fallen back on studying outward marks and indications.  In the first place, it had been posted from Puntal, and instead of the familiar violet stamp of Maritzburg, with which her other letters had been franked during the two months past, this stamp was pink, and its medallion bore the profile of Karyl.

That she had left Maritzburg, and that she had written him a message to be sealed for a month, meant that the date of March 5th had significance.  That she was in Galavia meant that the significance was—­he winced.

On the calendar of a bronze desk-set, the first four days of March were already cancelled.  Now, taking up a blue pencil, he crossed off the number five.  After that he looked at his watch.  It wanted one minute of six.  He held the timepiece before him while the second-hand ticked its way once around its circle, then with feverish impatience he tore the end from the envelope.

Benton’s face paled a little as he drew out the many pages covered with a woman’s handwriting, but there was no one to see that or to notice the tremor of his fingers.

For a moment he held the pages off, seeing only the “Dearest” at the top, and the wild way the pen had raced, forming almost shapeless characters.

“Dearest,” she said in part, “I write now because I must turn to someone—­because my heart must speak or break.  All day I must smile as befits royalty, and act as befits one whose part is written for her.  Unless there be an outlet, there must be madness.  I have enclosed this envelope in another and enjoined you not to read it until March 5th.  Then it will be too late for you to come to me.  If you came to-night, you would find me hurrying out to meet you and to surrender.  Duty would so gladly lay down its arms to Love, dear, and desert the fight.