Already it had conceived some project
involving him which he could by no means divine or even guess at
without a sense of wasting time.
Trying to put himself in her place, Lanyard believed that he would
never have neglected the opportunity that, so far as she knew, had been
hers, to steal away from Paris while he slept and leave an enemy in his
way quite as dangerous as "Dupont" to gnaw his nails in the
mortification of defeat. Why she had not done so, why she had permitted
Monk and Phinuit to play their comedy of offering him the jewels,
passed understanding.
But of one thing Lanyard felt reasonably assured: now that she had him
to all intents and purposes her foiled and harmless captive aboard the
Sybarite, Liane would not keep him waiting long for enlightenment as to
her intentions.
He had to wait, however, that night and the next three before the woman
showed herself. She was reported ill with mal-de-mer. Lanyard thought
it quite likely that she was; before she was out of the Channel the
Sybarite was contesting a moderate gale from the Southwest. On the
other hand, he imagined that Liane might sensibly be making seasickness
an excuse to get thoroughly rested and settled in her mind as to her
course with him.
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