He steadied
himself.
"No, pardon me, I do not know it, for I do not know you. . . . I never
saw you before." She leaned her hand carelessly on the bulwarks.
He was shocked, but he drew himself together. Their eyes were intent on
each other. "You do know me! Need I tell you that I am Boyd Madras?"
"Boyd Madras," she said, musing coldly. "A peculiar name."
"Mercy Madras was your name until you called yourself Mrs. Falchion," he
urged indignantly, yet anxiously too.
"It suits you to be mysterious, Mr.--ah yes, Mr. Boyd Madras; but,
really, you might be less exacting in your demands upon one's
imagination." Her look was again on him casually.
He spoke breathlessly. "Mercy--Mercy--for God's sake, don't treat me like
this! Oh, my wife, I have wronged you every way, but I loved you
always--love you now. I have only followed you to ask you to forgive me,
after all these years. I saw you in Colombo just before you came on
board, and I felt that I must come also. You never loved me. Perhaps that
is better for you, but you do not know what I suffer. If you could give
me a chance, and come with me to America--anywhere, and let me start the
world again? I can--travel straight now, and I will work hard, and be
honest.
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