Our visitor readily complied with this suggestion, and the two men entered the saloon together and closed the door.

Silence followed.  Catherine looked at me in questioning bewilderment,—­then she called to Mr. Swinton, who had been standing about as though awaiting orders in his usual tiresome and servile way.

“What sort of an interview did you have with that gentleman when you got on board his yacht?” she asked.

“Very pleasant—­very pleasant indeed”—­he replied—­“The vessel is magnificently appointed.  I have never seen such luxury.  Extraordinary!  More than princely!  Mr. Santoris himself I found particularly agreeable.  When he had read Mr. Harland’s note, he said he was glad to find it was from an old college companion, and that he would come over with me to renew the acquaintance.  As he has done.”

“You were not afraid of him, then?” queried Dr. Brayle, sarcastically.

“Oh dear no!  He seems quite well-bred, and I should say he must be very wealthy.”

“A most powerful recommendation!” murmured Brayle—­“The best in the world!  What do you think of him?” he asked, turning suddenly to me.

“I have no opinion,”—­I answered, quietly.

How could I say otherwise?  How could I tell such a man as he was, of one who had entered my life as insistently as a flash of light, illumining all that had hitherto been dark!

At that moment Catherine caught my hand.

“Listen!” she whispered.

A window of the deck saloon was open and we stood near it.  Dr. Brayle and Mr. Swinton had moved away to light fresh cigars, and we two women were for the moment alone.  We heard Mr. Harland’s voice raised to a sort of smothered cry.

“My God!  You are Santoris!”

“Of course I am!” And the deep answering tones were full of music,—­ the music of a grave and infinitely tender compassion—­“Why did you doubt it?  And why call upon God?  That is a name which has no meaning for you.”

There followed a silence.  I looked at Catherine and saw her pale face in the light of the moon, haggard in line and older than her years, and my heart was full of pity for her.  She was excited beyond her usual self-I could see that the appearance of the stranger from the yacht had aroused her interest and compelled her admiration.  I tried to draw her gently to a farther distance from the saloon, but she would not move.

“We ought not to listen,”—­I said—­“Catherine, come away!”

She shook her head.

“Hush!” she softly breathed—­“I want to hear!”

Just then Mr. Harland spoke again.

“I am sorry!” he said—­“I have wronged you and I apologise.  But you can hardly wonder at my disbelief, considering your appearance, which is that of a much younger man than your actual years should make you.”

The rich voice of Santoris gave answer.

“Did I not tell you and others long ago that for me there is no such thing as time, but only eternity?  The soul is always young,—­and I live in the Spirit of youth, not in the Matter of age.”