Miss Verinder stood near a boat that hung inboard on its davits, with her gloved hand on the rail and her gauze scarf gently stirring in the friendly breeze, while she talked and smiled, gaily and cheerfully. This is the woman’s portion. One must not say anything, or do anything, to bother one’s man or to lower his spirits when he is taking up his own burden of care and anxiety.
She watched, with intelligent interest, the toil of the sailors and the winches, as the wooden cases one after another came up from the hidden barge, swung round, and disappeared in their proper hold. This part of the cargo, as Dyke explained, was coming in last because it would go out first. The sailors, he assured her, although they certainly looked a shabby untrimmed gang, apparently of all nationalities too, were a real good lot. Oh, yes, one could trust old Cairns for that, and everything else.
With her heart aching rather worse than last night, Miss Verinder laughed and showed most intelligent interest.
Some of the big cases had on them, marked roughly in black paint, the words, “Bicycles” and “Bicycle accessories.” Oh, yes, of course, this was that consignment of which Dyke had spoken. The bicycles for the people of Uruguay, all bitten with the fashionable craze--the bicycles, of which the mere notion had caused Mr. Cairns to laugh so uproariously. Making conversation, she reminded Dyke of the Captain’s humour.
But Dyke looked at her doubtfully. Indeed his whole face clouded and he answered with a strange glumness. Then abruptly he took her by the arm, drawing her across the deck to the corresponding boat on the other side. There he told her firmly that he could not allow the continuance of a deception, however trifling. He could not leave her in the dark about anything in any way concerning him. Between him and her there must not be a secret, even though the secret was devoid of all importance. Well then, he had to confess, or rather to inform her, that all these bicycles--and he looked round to be sure that they were not overheard--those bicycles, don’t you know, were not really bicycles. No, they were, in fact, rifles, and so forth, technically known as small arms.
“But, Anthony,” said Miss Verinder, looking at him timidly but intently, “isn’t that what you call gun-running?”