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Renouard, his uneasiness growing on him unreasonably, assented by a nod, and the other lost no time in beginning. Professor Moorsom physicist and philosopher fine head of white hair, to judge from the photographs plenty of brains in the head too all these famous books surely even Renouard would know. . . .
But before he vanished he went to see Miss Moorsom. That very fact argues for his innocence don't it? What was said between them no man knows unless the professor had the confidence from his daughter. There couldn't have been much to say. There was nothing for it but to let him go was there? for the affair had got into the papers. And perhaps the kindest thing would have been to forget him.
She grew impatient, and declared that if she knew where the man was she would go to him. But all that could be got out of the old butler was that the last envelope bore the postmark of our beautiful city; and that this was the only address of 'Master Arthur' that he ever had. That and no more. In fact the fellow was at his last gasp with a bad heart. Miss Moorsom wasn't allowed to see him.
Miss Moorsom took the lead. The professor, his lips unsealed, lingered in the open: but Renouard did not listen to that man's talk. He looked after that man's daughter if indeed that creature of irresistible seductions were a daughter of mortals.
Renouard had recovered sufficiently to murmur coldly his regret of this waste of time. For that was what, he supposed, the professor had in his mind. "Time," mused Professor Moorsom. "I don't know that time can be wasted. But I will tell you, my dear friend, what this is: it is an awful waste of life. I mean for all of us. Even for my sister, who has got a headache and is gone to lie down."
'Ay, she's noane forgotten it, and has done her five stitches a day, bless her; and a dunnot believe as yo' know her again. She's Phoebe Moorsom, and a'm Hannah, and a've dealt at t' shop reg'lar this fifteen year. 'I'm very sorry, said Philip. 'I was up late last night, and I'm a bit dazed to-day.
It did not save him from death. It came to him as it were from nothing just a fall. A mere slip and tumble of ten feet into a ravine. But it seems he had been hurt before up-country by a horse. He ailed and ailed. No, he was not a steel-tipped man. And his poor soul seemed to have been damaged too. It gave way very soon." "This is tragic!" Felicia Moorsom whispered with feeling.
The lights on the deck had gone out one after the other. The schooner slept. About an hour after Miss Moorsom had gone below without a sign or a word for him, Renouard got out of his hammock slung in the waist under the midship awning for he had given up all the accommodation below to his guests.
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