"It is no excuse that I did it for you," he began. "I said I’d be willing to kill him rather than he should have you; but while I want you just as much as ever, more, if possible, that doesn’t prevent me from feeling like a murderer now. And it is all so useless, too. Your father never could give his consent now and you--with this hideous possibility before us, I’ve lost you, too."
He turned away. He could not control himself. He clenched his jaws together and walked toward the window, out of which he looked without seeing anything whatsoever. For a few moments nobody broke the silence. Old Maynard sat down quietly at his desk, leaned his face in his hands, and scrutinized his daughter. The air was surcharged with dramatic possibilities. He was too keen an observer not to recognize them. He had made up his own mind at last, but he wanted to see what his daughter would do before he disclosed his wishes or intentions. It seemed to Harnash, in whose breast a faint hope was still struggling as he also waited for the girl’s decision, that Stephanie’s silence lasted a long time. Really it was a very few moments. Singularly enough, her first word was not to her lover.
"Father," she began, facing the old man, "do you think it is likely that Derrick is lost?"
"If he were one of the survivors he would have cabled at once."
"I think we can discount that suggestion."
"Then his only chance would be the other boat?"
"A faint one. It was probably the bigger and better boat. It should have turned up before the other. It has not."
Every word carried conviction to the girl. The flicker of hope in Harnash’s heart died away. It revived again when Stephanie, after pondering her father’s words--and he allowed her to reflect upon them at her pleasure, volunteering nothing, suggesting nothing--began with another question.
"No one knew of Derrick’s presence on the ship except those who were aboard her?"
"Obviously not, since all the detectives in New York, for the past six months, have been endeavoring to find out where he went, stimulated by a reward big enough to arouse them all to the most frantic endeavors."
"I haven’t any doubt that Beekman disclosed his name to the officers so soon as he came to his senses, but I imagine it wouldn’t make much of an impression upon them. They wouldn’t believe him. Sailors are proverbially happy-go-lucky people. Our agents at San Francisco will pay off these survivors, they will scatter, and that will be the end of them."