One of the
gentlemen is the lady's husband."
"Oh, yes," muttered Jorgenson. "Who's the other?"
"You have been told. A friend."
"Poor Mr. d'Alcacer," said Mrs. Travers. "What bad luck for him to have
accepted our invitation. But he is really a mere acquaintance."
"I hardly noticed him," observed Lingard, gloomily. "He was talking to
you over the back of your chair when I came aboard the yacht as if he
had been a very good friend."
"We always understood each other very well," said Mrs. Travers, picking
up from the rail the long glass that was lying there. "I always liked
him, the frankness of his mind, and his great loyalty."
"What did he do?" asked Lingard.
"He loved," said Mrs. Travers, lightly. "But that's an old story." She
raised the glass to her eyes, one arm extended fully to sustain the long
tube, and Lingard forgot d'Alcacer in admiring the firmness of her pose
and the absolute steadiness of the heavy glass. She was as firm as a
rock after all those emotions and all that fatigue.
Mrs. Travers directed the glass instinctively toward the entrance of the
lagoon. The smooth water there shone like a piece of silver in the dark
frame of the forest. A black speck swept across the field of her vision.
It was some time before she could find it again and then she saw,
apparently so near as to be within reach of the voice, a small canoe
with two people in it.
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