Neeland was lying on his bed as white as death; but his eyes fluttered open in a dazed way:

"Steward," he whispered.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Neeland."

"My--box." His eyes closed.

"Box, sir?"

"Where--is--it?"

"Which box, sir? Is it this one here on the floor?"--lifting the olive-wood box in its case. The key was in the lock; the other keys hung from it, dangling on a steel ring.

The nurse stepped calmly into the room.

"Steward," she said in her low, pleasant voice, "the sedative I gave him has probably confused his mind a little----"

"Put that box--under--my head," interrupted Neeland's voice like a groan.

"I tell you," whispered the nurse, "he doesn't know what he is saying."

"I got to obey him, ma'am----"

"I forbid you----"

"Steward!" gasped Neeland.

"Sir?"

"My box. I--want it."

"Certainly, sir----"

"Here, beside my--pillow."

"Yes, sir." He laid the box beside the sick man.

"Is it locked, steward?"

"Key sticking in it, sir. Yes, it's locked, sir."

"Open."

The nurse, calm, pale, tight-lipped, stood by the curtain looking at the bed over which the steward leaned, opening the box.

"'Ere you are, sir," he said, lifting the cover. "I say, nurse, give 'im a lift, won't you?"

The nurse coolly stepped to the bedside, stooped, raised the head and shoulders of the prostrate man. After a moment his eyes unclosed; he looked at the contents of the box with a perceptible effort.

"Lock it, steward. Place it beside me.... Next the wall.... So....

Place the keys in my pocket.... Thank you.... I had a--pistol."

"Sir?"

"A pistol. Where is it?"

The steward's roving glance fell finally upon the washbasin. He walked over, picked up the automatic, and, with an indescribable glance at the nurse, laid it across Neeland's up-turned palm.

The young man's fingers fumbled it, closed over the handle; and a ghost of a smile touched his ashen face.

"Do you feel better, sir?"

"I'm tired.... Yes, I feel--better."

"Can I do anything for you, Mr. Neeland?"

"Stay outside--my door."

"Do you wish the doctor, sir?"

"No.... No!... Don't call him; do you hear?"

"I won't call him, sir."

"No, don't call him."

"No, sir.... Mr. Neeland, there is a--a trained nurse here. You will not want her, will you, sir?"

Again the shadow of a smile crept over Neeland's face.

"Did she come for--her handkerchief?"

There was a silence; the steward looked steadily at the nurse; the nurse's dark eyes were fixed on the man lying there before her.

"You shan't be wanting her any more, shall you, sir?" repeated the steward, not shifting his gaze.

"Yes; I think I shall want her--for a little while."... Neeland slowly opened his eyes, smiled up at the motionless nurse: "How are you, Scheherazade?" he said weakly. And, to the steward, with an effort: "Miss White and I are--old friends.... However--kindly remain outside--my door.... And throw what remains of my dinner--out of--the port.... And be ready--at all times--to look after the--gentleman on crutches.... I'm--fond of him.... Thank you, steward."

Long after the steward had closed the stateroom door, Ilse Dumont stood beside Neeland's bed without stirring. Once or twice he opened his eyes and looked at her humorously. After a while he said:

"Please be seated, Scheherazade."

She calmly seated herself on the edge of his couch.

"Horrid soup," he murmured. "You should attend a cooking school, my dear."

She regarded him absently, as though other matters absorbed her.