The tears were very close to her eyes. She loved Monohan;
Monohan loved her. Fyfe loved her in his deliberate, repressed fashion
and possessed her, according to the matrimonial design. And although now
his possession was a hollow mockery, he would never give her up--not to
Walter Monohan. She had that fatalistic conviction.
How would it end in the long run?
She leaned forward to speak. Words quivered on her lips. But as she
struggled to shape them to utterance, the blast of a boat whistle came
screaming up from the water, near and shrill and imperative.
Fyfe came out of his chair like a shot. He landed poised on his feet,
lips drawn apart, hands clenched. He held that pose for an instant, then
relaxed, his breath coming with a quick sigh.
Stella stared at him. Nerves! She knew the symptoms too well. Nerves at
terrible tension in that big, splendid body. A slight quiver seemed to
run over him. Then he was erect and calmly himself again, standing in a
listening attitude.
"That's the _Panther_?" he said. "Pulling in to the _Waterbug's_
landing. Did I startle you when I bounced up like a cougar, Stella?" he
asked, with a wry smile. "I guess I was half asleep. That whistle jolted
me."
Stella glanced out the shaded window.
"Some one's coming up from the float with a lantern," she said. "Is
there--is there likely to be anything wrong, Jack?"
"Anything wrong?" He shot a quick glance at her. Then casually: "Not
that I know of."
The bobbing lantern came up the path through the lawn.
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