And he laughed again--and as he laughed, he ran to the door and locked it for the second time. There would be no more of that, no more interruption, no more of those tempter thoughts, no more of them! And, for the moment, no more thought even of Marie-Louise. He had need to centre all his attention upon his immediate acts now, for he must be very careful what he did. And he had little time--had not Henry Bliss said that in half an hour he would return with Myrna?
He ran back into the bedroom, tore off his coat, vest and shirt; and, catching up his toilet-case, hurried into the bathroom. Here, he clipped off his beard and shaved it close--then quickly, a sort of tense, keyed-up excitement constantly growing upon him, he returned once more to the bedroom, and, stripping off the remainder of his clothes, began to put on the fisherman's suit. How heavy and stiff the boots felt upon his feet, how rough and coarse the socks were against his skin--and yet how their familiarity thrilled him! He swung his arms, wondering and laughing at the free play of his muscles in the loose shirt, and memories and thoughts began to press upon him--but he checked them almost instantly, for there was no time now for that.
He finished dressing hastily. He must leave no clue behind him that would occasion even a suspicion that he had not carried out the purpose that the world, and essentially those on board the ship, must be made to believe was the last act of Jean Laparde. Amongst a thousand, amongst the conglomerate races that cluttered the ship's steerage, where even amongst themselves few knew each other, where difference in language precluded all but the most scattered and superficial acquaintanceship, none would recognise Jean Laparde in the rough-garbed fisherman--provided always that no search was instituted, provided always that there should be no _incentive_ in the mind of any one to search, provided always that it was accepted as a fact--that Jean Laparde was dead! He could not hope perhaps, between now and the time they reached New York, or, at least, on landing, to escape the attention of the ship's officers or the shore officials; but with Jean Laparde a suicide in the mist and fog of that Atlantic night, he would be no more to them than one as rough and ignorant and poor as those others in the steerage--no more than a stowaway.