Page:Arthur Stringer - Gun Runner.djvu/128

 "Then remember," she said, and her voice was little more than a whisper, "we are acting together."

McKinnon still stood there, watching her, as she opened the cabin door and stepped out to the wet and gloomy deck. Something about her departure so paralleled that of the man who had gone before her that the coincidence struck him with a start. It brought the thought through him like an arrow that he had openly pledged himself to two opponents, that he had made a promise to act for two enemies. This was followed by a second and an equally disturbing thought: he had not once been honest or open with her; he was letting his lack of candour make her path a harder one than she deserved.

He sprang through the door after her, swept by a sudden fierce fire of self-hate, of contempt for the things in which he found himself involved.

A moment later he had called her back across the midnight gloom of the dipping and rocking deck.

"What is it?" she asked, as she stepped into the cabin, her eyes wide with wonder. He made sure the deck was empty, and closed the door. Then, with an obvious effort, he wheeled about and faced her.

"It may not be too late for us to get out of