"Possibly two. Possibly only one."
"At what time?"
"Between eleven and twelve, any night from tonight on. Or at four o'clock any morning. I should have called them by flashing-a red light."
"Any particular signal?"
"No. Just a regular intermittent flash," said Dicky inertly. "There's no catch in it."
Hilloran studied his face curiously. "I'd believe you-if the way you're surrendering wasn't the very opposite of everything that's ever been said about the Saint's gang."
Tremayne's mouth twitched. "For heaven's sake!" he burst out seethingly. "Haven't I told you, you poor blamed boob? I'm fed up with the Saint. I'm fed up with everything. I don't give another lonely damn for anything anyone does. I tell you, I was mad about that double-crossing little slut. And now I see what she's really worth, I don't care what happens to her or to me. You can do what you like. Get on with it!"
Hilloran looked round the saloon, By then, everyone had been securely bound except the girl, and the seamen were standing about uncertainly, waiting for further instructions. Hilloran jerked his head in the direction of the door. "Get out," he ordered. "There's two people here I want to interview-alone."
Nevertheless, when the last man had left the room, closing the door behind him, Hilloran did not immediately proceed with the interview. Instead, he pocketed one gun, and produced a large bag of soft leather. With this he went round the room, collecting necklaces, earrings, brooches, rings, studs, bracelets, wallets-till the bag bulged and weighed heavy. Then he added to it the contents of his pockets. More and more jewels slipped into the bag like a stream of glittering hailstones. When he had finished, he had some difficulty in tightening the cords that closed the mouth of the bag.
He balanced it appreciatively on the palm of his hand. "One million dollars," he said.
"You're welcome," said Dicky.
"Now I'll talk," said Hilloran.
He talked unemotionally, and Dicky listened without the least sign of feeling. At the end, he shrugged. "You might shoot me first," he suggested.
"I'll consider it."
No sentence of death could ever have been given or received more calmly. It was a revelation to Dicky, in its way, for he would have expected Hilloran to bluster and threaten luridly. Hilloran, after all, had a good deal to be vindictive about. But the man's restraint was inhuman.
Tremayne's stoicism matched it. Hilloran promised death as he might have promised a drink: Dicky accepted the promise as he might have accepted a drink. Yet he never doubted that it was meant. The very unreality of Hilloran's command of temper made his sincerity more real than any theatrical elaboration could have done. "I should like to ask a last favour," said Dicky calmly.
"A cigarette?"
"I shouldn't refuse that. But what I should appreciate most would be the chance to finish telling-her-what I was telling her when you came in.
Hilloran hesitated.
"If you agree," added Dicky callously, "I'd advise you to have her tied up first. Otherwise, she might try to untie me in the hope of saving her own skin. Seriously-we haven't been melodramatic about this to-night, so you might go on in the same way."
"You're plucky," said Hilloran.
Tremayne shrugged. "When you've no further interest in life, death loses its terror."
Hilloran went and picked up a length of rope that had been left over. He tied the girl's wrists behind her back; then he went to the door and called, and two men appeared. "Take those two to my cabin," he said. "You'll remain on guard outside the door." He turned back to Dicky. "I shall signal at eleven. At any time after that, you may expect me to call you out on deck."
"Thank you," said Dicky quietly. The first seaman had picked up Audrey Perowne, and Dicky followed him out of the saloon. The second brought up the rear. The girl was laid down on the bunk in Hilloran's cabin. Dicky kicked down the folding seat and made himself as comfortable as he could. The men withdrew, closing the door.
Dicky looked out of the porthole and waited placidly. It was getting dark. The cabin was in twilight; and, beyond the porthole, a faintly luminous blue-grey dusk was deepening over the sea. Sometimes he could hear the tramp of footsteps passing over the deck above. Apart from that, there was no sound but the murmuring undertone of slithering waters slipping past the hull, and the vibration, felt rather than heard, of the auxiliary engines. It was all strangely peaceful. And Dicky waited. After a long time, the girl sighed and moved. Then she lay still again. It was getting so dark that he could hardly see her face as anything but a pale blur in the shadow. But presently she said softly: "So it worked."
"What worked?"
"The coffee."
He said. "I had nothing to do with that."
"Almost neat butyl, it was," she said. "That was clever. I guessed my own coffee would be doped of course. I put the idea into Hilloran's head, because it's always helpful to know how you're going to be attacked. But I didn't think it'd be as strong as that. I thought it'd be safe to sip it."
"Won't you believe that I didn't do it, Audrey?"
"I don't care. It was somebody clever who thought of catching me out with my own idea."
He said: "I didn't do it, Audrey."
Then for a time there was silence.
Then she said: "My hands are tied."
"So are mine."
"He got you as well?"
"Easily. Audrey, how awake are you?"
"I'm quite awake now," she said. "Just very tired. And my head's splitting. But that doesn't matter. Have you got anything else to say?"
"Audrey, do you know who I am?"
"I know. You're one of the Saint's gang. You told me. But I knew it before."
"You knew it before?"
"I've known it for a long time. As soon as I noticed that you weren't quite an ordinary crook, I made inquiries-on my own, without anyone knowing. It took a long time, but I did it. Didn't you meet at a flat in Brook Street?"
Dicky paused. "Yes," he said slowly. "That's true. Then why did you keep it quiet?"
"That," she said, "is my very own business."
"All the time I was with you, you were in danger-yet you deliberately kept me with you."
"I chose to take the chance. That was because I loved you."
"You what?"
"I loved you," she said wearily. "Oh, I can say it quite safely now. And I will, for my own private satisfaction. You hear me, Dicky Tremayne? I loved you. I suppose you never thought I could have the feelings of an ordinary woman. But I did. I had it worse than an ordinary woman has it. I've always lived recklessly, and I loved recklessly. The risk was worth it-as long as you were with me. But I never thought you cared for me, till last night. ..."
"Audrey, you tell me that!"