"If you wish to give me the money," she said, trying to propitiate me in that way, "I am ready to take it now."
I unlocked my traveling-bag.
As I looked into it for the leather case which held my money, my overpowering desire to get her on deck again, my mad impatience to commit the fatal act, became too strong to be controlled.
"We shall be cooler on deck," I said.
"Let us take the bag up there."
She showed wonderful courage.
I could almost see the cry for help rising to her lips.
She repressed it; she had still presence of mind enough to foresee what might happen before she could rouse the sleeping men.
"We have a light here to count the money by," she answered.
"I don't feel at all too warm in the cabin.
Let us stay here a little longer.
See how Elfie is amusing herself!"
Her eyes rested on me as she spoke.
Something in the expression of them quieted me for the time.
I was able to pause and think.
I might take her on deck by force before the men could interfere.
But her cries would rouse them; they would hear the splash in the water, and they might be quick enough to rescue us.
It would be wiser, perhaps, to wait a little and trust to my cunning to delude her into leaving the cabin of her own accord.
I put the bag back on the table, and began to search for the leather money-case.
My hands were strangely clumsy and helpless.
I could only find the case after scattering half the contents of the bag on the table.
The child was near me at the time, and noticed what I was doing.
"Oh, how awkward you are!" she burst out, in her frankly fearless way.
"Let me put your bag tidy.
Do, please!"
I granted the request impatiently.
Elfie's restless desire to be always doing something, instead of amusing me, as usual, irritated me now.
The interest that I had once felt in the charming little creature was all gone.
An innocent love was a feeling that was stifled in the poisoned atmosphere of my mind that night.
The money I had with me was mostly composed of notes of the Bank of England.
Carefully keeping up appearances, I set aside the sum that would probably be required to take a traveler back to London; and I put all that remained into the hands of Mrs. Van Brandt.
Could she suspect me of a design on her life now? "That will do for the present," I said.
"I can communicate with you in the future through Messrs. Van Brandt, of Amsterdam."
She took the money mechanically.
Her hand trembled; her eyes met mine with a look of piteous entreaty.
She tried to revive my old tenderness for her; she made a last appeal to my forbearance and consideration.
"We may part friends," she said, in low, trembling tones.
"And as friends we may meet again, when time has taught you to think forgivingly of what has passed between us, to-night."
She offered me her hand.
I looked at her without taking it.
I penetrated her motive in appealing to my old regard for her.
Still suspecting me, she had tried her last chance of getting safely on shore.
"The less we say of the past, the better," I answered, with ironical politeness. "It is getting late. And you will agree with me that Elfie ought to be in her bed."
I looked round at the child.
"Be quick, Elfie," I said; "your mamma is going away."
I opened the cabin door, and offered my arm to Mrs. Van Brandt.
"This boat is my house for the time being," I resumed. "When ladies take leave of me after a visit, I escort them to the dock.
Pray take my arm."
She started back.
For the second time she was on the point of crying for help, and for the second time she kept that last desperate alternative in reserve.