She did not enter the cabin at once, but paused on the threshold and stared at the silent, recumbent figure in the bunk. "I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. It felt too good. She had viewed them askance, and without exchanging ideas with any one else in the world about them. Ann Veronica tried to seem absolutely unconcerned. The costume of this personage was somewhat singular, and might have passed for a masquerading habit, had not the imperturbable gravity of his demeanour forbidden any such supposition. He wanted to become a millionaire. She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance. It’s not you—not a bit.
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