CHAPTER X

I was violently excited. I was sure that I had hit on the right

trail at last. One thing was clear, I must not move out of the

cabin. The asafœtida had got to be borne. I examined my facts

again.

To-morrow was the 22nd, and at 1 a.m. or 1 p.m. something would

happen. I plumped for 1 a.m. It was now seven o’clock. In six hours

I should know.

I don’t know how I got through the evening. I retired to my cabin

fairly early. I had told the stewardess that I had a cold in the

head and didn’t mind smells. She still seemed distressed, but I

was firm.

The evening seemed interminable. I duly retired to bed, but in view

of emergencies I swathed myself in a thick flannel dressing-gown,

and encased my feet in slippers. Thus attired I felt that I could

spring up and take an active part in anything that happened.

What did I expect to happen? I hardly knew. Vague fancies, most of

them wildly improbable, flitted through my brain. But one thing I

was firmly convinced of, at one o’clock _something_ would happen.

At various times, I heard my fellow-passengers coming to bed.

Fragments of conversation, laughing good-nights, floated in through

the open transom. Then, silence. Most of the lights went out. There

was still one in the passage outside, and there was therefore a

certain amount of light in my cabin. I heard eight bells go. The

hour that followed seemed the longest I had ever known. I consulted

my watch surreptitiously to be sure I had not overshot the time.

If my deductions were wrong, if nothing happened at one o’clock,

I should have made a fool of myself, and spent all the money I had

in the world on a mare’s-nest. My heart beat painfully.

Two bells went overhead. One o’clock! And nothing. Wait—what was

that? I heard the quick light patter of feet running—running along

the passage.

Then with the suddenness of a bombshell my cabin door burst open

and a man almost fell inside.

“Save me,” he said hoarsely. “They’re after me.”

It was not a moment for argument or explanation. I could hear

footsteps outside. I had about forty seconds in which to act. I

had sprung to my feet and was standing facing the stranger in the

middle of the cabin.

A cabin does not abound in hiding-places for a six-foot man. With

one arm I pulled out my cabin trunk. He slipped down behind it

under the bunk. I raised the lid. At the same time, with the other

hand I pulled down the wash-basin. A deft movement and my hair was

screwed into a tiny knot on the top of my head. From the point of

view of appearance it was inartistic, from another standpoint it

was supremely artistic. A lady, with her hair screwed into an

unbecoming knob and in the act of removing a piece of soap from

her trunk with which, apparently to wash her neck, could hardly be

suspected of harbouring a fugitive.

There was a knock at the door, and without waiting for me to say,

“Come in,” it was pushed open.

I don’t know what I expected to see. I think I had vague ideas of

Mr. Pagett brandishing a revolver. Or my missionary friend with a

sandbag, or some other lethal weapon. But certainly I did not

expect to see a night stewardess, with an inquiring face and

looking the essence of respectability.

“I beg your pardon, miss, I thought you called out.”

“No,” I said, “I didn’t.”

“I’m sorry for interrupting you.”

“That’s all right,” I said. “I couldn’t sleep. I thought a wash

would do me good.” It sounded rather as though it were a thing I

never had as a general rule.

“I’m so sorry, miss,” said the stewardess again. “But there’s a

gentleman about who’s rather drunk, and we are afraid he might get

into one of the ladies’ cabins and frighten them.”

“How dreadful,” I said, looking alarmed. “He won’t come in here,

will he?”

“Oh, I don’t think so, miss. Ring the bell if he does. Good night.”

“Good night.”

I opened the door and peeped down the corridor. Except for the

retreating form of the stewardess, there was nobody in sight.

Drunk! So that was the explanation of it. My histrionic talents

had been wasted. I pulled the cabin trunk out a little farther and

said:

“Come out at once, please,” in an acid voice.

There was no answer. I peered under the bunk. My visitor lay

immovable. He seemed to be asleep. I tugged at his shoulder. He

did not move.

“Dead drunk,” I thought vexedly. “What _am_ I to do?”

Then I saw something that made me catch my breath, a small scarlet

spot on the floor.

Using all my strength, I succeeded in dragging the man out into

the middle of the cabin. The dead whiteness of his face showed that

he had fainted. I found the cause of his fainting easily enough.

He had been stabbed under the left shoulder-blade—a nasty deep

wound. I got his coat off and set to work to attend to it.

At the sting of the cold water he stirred, then sat up.

“Keep still, please,” I said.

He was the kind of young man who recovers his faculties very

quickly. He pulled himself to his feet and stood there swaying a

little.

“Thank you, I don’t need anything done for me.”

His manner was defiant, almost aggressive. Not a word of thanks—of

even common gratitude!

“That is a nasty wound. You must let me dress it.”

“You will do nothing of the kind.”

He flung the words in my face as though I had been begging a favour

of him. My temper, never placid, rose.

“I cannot congratulate you upon your manners,” I said coldly.

“I can at least relieve you of my presence.” He started for the

door, but reeled as he did so. With an abrupt movement I pushed

him down upon the sofa.

“Don’t be a fool,” I said unceremoniously. “You don’t want to go

bleeding all over the ship, do you?”

He seemed to see the sense of that, for he sat quietly whilst I

bandaged up the wound as best I could.

“There,” I said, bestowing a pat on my handiwork, “that will have

to do for the present. Are you better tempered now and do you feel

inclined to tell me what it’s all about?”

“I’m sorry that I can’t satisfy your very natural curiosity.”

“Why not?” I said, chagrined.

He smiled nastily.

“If you want a thing broadcasted, tell a woman. Otherwise keep your

mouth shut.”

“Don’t you think I could keep a secret?”

“I don’t think—I know.”

He rose to his feet.

“At any rate,” I said spitefully, “I shall be able to do a little

broadcasting about the events of this evening.”

“I’ve no doubt you will too,” he said indifferently.

“How dare you?” I cried angrily.

We were facing each other, glaring at each other with the ferocity

of bitter enemies. For the first time, I took in the details of

his appearance, the close-cropped dark head, the lean jaw, the scar

on the brown cheek, the curious light grey eyes that looked into

mine with a sort of reckless mockery hard to describe. There was

something dangerous about him.

“You haven’t thanked me yet for saving your life?” I said with

false sweetness.

I hit him there. I saw him flinch distinctly. Intuitively I knew

that he hated above all to be reminded that he owed his life to

me. I didn’t care. I wanted to hurt him. I had never wanted to hurt

any one so much.

“I wish to God you hadn’t!” he said explosively. “I’d be better

dead and out of it.”

“I’m glad you acknowledge the debt. You can’t get out of it. I

saved your life and I’m waiting for you to say ‘Thank you.’”

If looks could have killed, I think he would have liked to kill me

then. He pushed roughly past me. At the door he turned back, and

spoke over his shoulder.

“I shall not thank you—now or at any other time. But I acknowledge

the debt. Some day I will pay it.”

He was gone, leaving me with clenched hands, and my heart beating

like a mill race.