And, by sunrise, we'll
be well out at sea."

The words caught Hemingway by the throat. He turned his eyes to the
town lying like a field of snow in the moonlight. Somewhere on one of
its flat roofs a merry dinner-party was laughing, drinking, perhaps
regretting his absence, wondering at his excuse of sudden illness. She
was there, and he with the detective like a shadow at his elbow, was
sailing out of her life forever. He had seen her for the last time:
that morning for the last time had looked into her eyes, had held her
hands in his. He saw the white beach, the white fortress-like walls,
the hanging gardens, the courtesying palms, dimly. It was among those
that he who had thought himself content, had found happiness, and had
then seen it desert him and take out of his life pleasure in all other
things. With a pain that seemed impossible to support, he turned his
back upon Zanzibar and all it meant to him. And, as he turned, he
faced, coming toward him, across the moonlit deck, Fearing.

His instinct was to cry out to the man in warning, but his second
thought showed him that through his very effort to protect the other,
he might bring about his undoing. So, helpless to prevent, in
agitation and alarm, he waited in silence. Of the two men, Fearing
appeared the least disturbed. With a polite but authoritative gesture
he turned to the detective. "I have something to say to this gentleman
before he sails," he said; "would you kindly stand over there?"

He pointed across the empty deck at the other rail.

In the alert, confident young man in the English mess-jacket,
clean-shaven and bronzed by the suns of the equator, the detective saw
no likeness to the pale, bearded bank clerk of the New England city.
This, he guessed, must be some English official, some friend of
Brownell's who generously had come to bid the unfortunate fugitive
Godspeed.

Assured of this, the detective also bowed politely, and, out of
hearing, but with his prisoner in full view, took up a position against
the rail opposite.

Turning his back upon the detective, and facing Hemingway with his eyes
close to his, Fearing began abruptly. His voice was sunk to a whisper,
but he spoke without the slightest sign of trepidation, without the
hesitation of an instant.

"Two years ago, when I was indicted," he whispered, "and ran away,
Polly paid back half of the sum I stole. That left her without a
penny; that's why she took to this typewr