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Press, CINCINNATI: Ferris Stanhope or Laurence Varney? Baffling mystery Varney crossed the square in the gathering dusk and went slowly up Main Street, looking about him as he walked. He had wrenched his ankle slightly in one of his falls upon the Cypriani's deck, and the four-mile walk over the ruts of the River road to the town had done it no good.
Full of contrasts and a story as it was, it would have been a striking face at any time; and to the two peering men in the Cypriani's boat, it was now very striking indeed. For they saw immediately that the curious eyes were half open and were fixed full upon them. The match burned Varney's fingers, went out and dropped into the water. He said nothing. Neither did Peter.
Upon the shore, at the spot where the Cypriani's boat ordinarily landed, stood a tallish, stocky young man, looking at them cheerfully and swabbing his brow with a large blue handkerchief. Catching Varney's eye, he waved his hand with the handkerchief in it, and said, for the second time: "Hello, aboard the Cypriani!" Varney stepped to the rail, a faint smile on his lip. "Hello, there!
Garbed in a suit of Varney's clothes, warmed beneath his belt by a libation from the Cypriani's choicest stock, eased as to his person by a pillow beneath his head and a comfortable rest for his feet, Charlie Hammerton threw back his head and laughed. "I'm not crazy about those grand-stand plays as a rule," he said.
They had left the town dock behind and were scudding swiftly. Every pulse of the Cypriani's machinery was beating into his brain: "Tell her now! Tell her now!" But all at once he found it very hard to speak. "There is time enough for that. There is something that I must tell you first in fairness to Hare. The fact is that I I made Peter take him away because I wanted to be alone with you."
The bare-headed young man sprang down, assisted her to descend, waited with her at the water's edge, assisted her most thoroughly into the Cypriani's gig. He was a handsome boy. He stood on the shore looking after the departing boat, laughing and calling out something. "We wanted to have luncheon on deck," said Varney, abruptly, to Mrs. Marne, "as the day is so uncommonly fine.
"Why, what on earth can you mean?" "Now you must! Now you must!" sang the Cypriani's staunch little engines. But he made the mistake of looking at her, and this move betrayed him. There was no doubt of him in her upturned, perplexed face, no shadow of distrust to give him strength. His earlier dread of this moment, strangely faded for a while, closed in on him once more with deadly force.
He turned slowly and looked at her. She leaned lightly upon the rail, her eyes on the water, her lashes on her cheek like a silken veil. At her breast nodded his favor, the Cypriani's perfect rose. In her youth, her beauty, and, most of all, her innocent helplessness, there was something indescribably wistful, indescribably compelling: it sprang at him and possessed him.
That the old spy had somehow ferreted out their secret was now too plain to admit a doubt. But what conceivable use did he mean to make of it? To interfere with the Cypriani's homegoing was beyond his power now. Did it better suit his mysterious purpose to hold back until the thing was done, in order to raise the dogs of scandal afterwards?...
Hare lifted a glass of the Cypriani's excellent sherry and caught his host's eye. "Mr. Varney! By a pleasant coincidence, we happen to be gathered here within a day or two of the birthday of one member of our charming party. The little discrepancy of date is immaterial am I right? Why may I not propose the health and great happiness of Miss Carstairs?" "Standing!" cried Mrs.
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