“At three o’clock in the morning?” the captain observed incredulously.
“At about a quarter of an hour past that time,” the other assented.
“And what on earth were you doing about on deck?”
“I have strange habits,” Crawshay confessed. “On board ship I indulge them. I like to sleep when I feel like it, and to wander about when I feel inclined. After my extraordinary, my remarkable experience of yesterday, I was not disposed for slumber.” “It appears to me, sir,” the purser intervened, “that on board this ship you seem to do a great deal of walking about, considering you have only been with us for a little more than twelve hours.”
“Liver,” Crawshay explained confidentially. “I suffer intensely from my liver. Gentle and continual exercise is my greatest help.”
The captain turned towards his junior officer.
“Mr. Dix,” he suggested, “perhaps it will clear this little matter up if we send for Robins. You might just step out yourself and bring him round.”
Crawshay extended an eager hand.
“I beg that you will do nothing of the sort,” he pleaded.
“But why not?” the captain demanded. “You have made a definite charge against a wireless operator on the ship. He ought to be placed in the position to be able to refute it if he can.”
“There is no doubt,” Crawshay agreed, “that in course of time he will be given that opportunity. At present it would be indiscreet.”
“And why?”
“Because there will be other messages, and one is driven to the conclusion that it would be exceedingly interesting to lay hands on one of these messages, no record of which is kept, of which the purser is not informed, and which are delivered secretly to—”
“Well, to whom?” the captain demanded.
“To a passenger on board this steamer.”
The captain shook his head. His whole expression was one of disapproval.
“Nonsense!” he exclaimed. “If Robins has failed in his duty, which I still take the liberty of doubting, I must cross-question him at once.”
Crawshay assumed the air of a pained invalid whose wishes have been thwarted.
“You must really oblige me by doing nothing of the sort,” he begged. “I am sure that my way is best. Besides, you make me feel like an eavesdropper — a common informer, and that sort of thing, you know.”
“I am afraid that I cannot allow any question of sentiment to stand between me and the discipline of my ship,” was the somewhat uncompromising reply.
Crawshay sighed, and with languid fingers unbuttoned his overcoat and coat. Then, from some mysterious place in the neighbourhood of his breast pocket, he produced an envelope containing a single half-sheet of paper.
“Read that, sir, if you please,” he begged.
The captain accepted the envelope with some reluctance, straightened out its contents, read the few words it contained several times, and handed back the missive. He stood for a moment like a man in a dream. Crawshay returned the envelope to his pocket and rose to his feet.
“Well, I’ll be getting along,” he observed. “We’ll have another little chat, Captain, later on. I must take my matutinal stroll, or I know how I shall feel about luncheon time. Besides, there are some exuberant persons on board who are expecting me to offer them refreshment about one o’clock, out of my winnings, and, attached to your wonderful country as I am, Captain, I must admit that cocktails do not agree with me.” “One has to get used to them,” the captain murmured absently.
“I am most unfortunate, too, in the size of my feet,” Crawshay continued dolefully, looking down at them. “If there is one thing I thoroughly dislike, it is being on board ship without rubber overshoes — a product of your country, Captain, which I must confess that I appreciate more than your cocktails. Good morning, sir. I hope I haven’t kept you from your rounds. Dear me!” he added, in a tone of vexation, as he passed through the door, “I believe that I have been sitting in a draught all the time. I feel quite shivery.”
He shambled down the deck. The purser lingered behind with an enquiring expression in his eyes, but his chief did not take the hint.
“Dix,” he said solemnly, as he put on his cap and started out on his rounds, “I was right. This is going to be a very queer voyage indeed!”
.
CHAPTER VII
Crawshay walked slowly along the deck until he found a completely sheltered spot. Then he summoned the deck steward and superintended the arrangement of his deck chair, which was almost hidden under a heap of rugs. He had just adjusted a pair of spectacles and was preparing to settle down when Katharine, in her nurse’s uniform, issued from the companionway and stood for a moment looking about her. Crawshay at once raised his cap.
“Good morning, Miss Beverley,” he said. “You do not recognise me, of course, but my name is Crawshay. I had the pleasure of meeting you once at Washington.”
“I remember you quite well, Mr. Crawshay,” she replied, glancing with some amusement at his muffled-up state. “Besides, you must remember that you are the hero of the ship. I suppose I ought to congratulate you upon your wonderful descent upon us yesterday.”
“Pray don’t mention it,” Crawshay murmured. “The chance just came my way. I — er—” he went on, gazing hard at her uniform, “I was not aware that you were personally interested in nursing.”
“That shows how little you know about me, Mr. Crawshay.” “I have heard,” he admitted, “of your wonderful deeds of philanthropy, also that you entirely support a large hospital in New York, but I had no idea that you interested yourself personally in the — er — may I say most feminine and charming avocation of nursing?”
“I have been a probationer,” she told him, “in my own hospital, and I am at the present moment in attendance upon a patient on board this steamer.”
“You amaze me!” he exclaimed. “You — did I understand you to say that you were in personal attendance upon a patient?”
“That is so, Mr. Crawshay.”
“Well, well, forgive my astonishment,” he continued. “I had no idea. At any rate I am glad that your patient’s state of health permits you to leave him for a time.”
Her expression became a little graver.
“As a matter of fact,” she sighed, “my patient is very ill indeed, I am afraid. However, the doctor shares the responsibility with me, and he is staying with him now for half an hour.”
“May I, in that case,” he begged, “share your promenade?”
“With pleasure,” she acquiesced, without enthusiasm. “You will have to take off some of your coats, though.”
“I am suffering from chill,” he explained. “I sometimes think that I shall never be warm again, after my experience of yesterday.”
He divested himself, however, of his outside coat, arranged his muffler carefully, thrust his hands into his pockets, and fell into step by her side. “I am interested,” he observed, “in illness. What exactly is the matter with your charge?”
“He has had a bad operation,” she replied, “and there are complications.”
“Dear me! Dear me!” Crawshay exclaimed, in a shocked tone. “And in such a state he chooses to make a perilous voyage like this?”
“That is rather his affair, is it not?” she said drily.
“Precisely,” her companion agreed. “Precisely! I should not, perhaps, have made the remark. Sickness, however, interests me very much. I have the misfortune not to be strong myself, and my own ailments occupy a good deal of my attention.”
She looked at him curiously.
“You suffer from nerves, don’t you?” she enquired.