The Ghost: A Modern Fantasy
Page 71The man who had burst into the saloon shouting "Where is my wife?"
reappeared from somewhere, and standing near to me started to undress
hastily. I watched him. He had taken off his coat, waistcoat, and
boots, when a quiet, amused voice said: "I shouldn't do that if I were
you. It's rather chilly, you know. Besides, think of the ladies."
Without a word he began with equal celerity to reassume his clothes. I
turned to the speaker. It was the youth who had dragged the girl away
from me when I first came up on deck. She was on his arm, and had a
rug over her head. Both were perfectly self-possessed. The serenity of
the young man's face particularly struck me. I was not to be out-done.
"Have a cigarette?" I said.
"Thanks."
"Do you happen to know what all this business is?" I asked him.
That saved us for the moment."
"How did it occur?"
"Don't know."
"And where's the ship that struck us?"
"Oh, somewhere over there--two or three miles away." He pointed
vaguely to the northeast. "You see, half the paddle-wheel was knocked
off, and when that sank, of course the port side rose out of the
water. I believe those paddle-wheels weigh a deuce of a lot."
"Are we going to sink?"
"Don't know. Can tell you more in half an hour. I've got two
life-belts hidden under a seat. They're rather a nuisance to carry
about. You're shivering, Lottie. We must take some more exercise. See
And the two went off again. The girl had not looked at me, nor I at
her. She did not seem to be interested in our conversation. As for her
companion, he restored my pride in my race.
I began to whistle. Suddenly the whistle died on my lips. Standing
exactly opposite to me, on the starboard side, was the mysterious
being whom I had last seen in the railway carriage at Sittingbourne.
He was, as usual, imperturbable, sardonic, terrifying. His face, which
chanced to be lighted by the rays of a deck lantern, had the pallor
and the immobility of marble, and the dark eyes held me under their
hypnotic gaze.
Again I had the sensation of being victimized by a conspiracy of which
this implacable man was the head. I endured once more the mental
then, I felt helpless and bewildered. It seemed to me that his
existence overshadowed mine, and that in some way he was connected
with the death of Alresca. Possibly there was a plot, in which the
part played by the jealousy of Carlotta Deschamps was only a minor
one. Possibly I had unwittingly stepped into a net of subtle intrigue,
of the extent of whose boundaries and ramifications I had not the
slightest idea. Like one set in the blackness of an unfamiliar
chamber, I feared to step forward or backward lest I might encounter
some unknown horror.