that moment I began to connect Justine Caron with certain
events which, I felt sure, were marshalling to an unhappy conclusion. I
wondered, too, what part I should play in the development of the comedy,
tragedy, or whatever it was to be. In this connection I thought of Belle
Treherne, and of how I should appear in her eyes if that little scene
with Mrs. Falchion, now always staring me in the face, were rehearsed
before her. I came quickly to my feet, with a half-imprecation at
myself; and a verse of a crude sea-song was in my ears:

"You can batten down cargo, live and dead,
But you can't put memory out of sight;
You can paint the full sails overhead,
But you can't make a black deed white...."

Angry, I said to myself: "It wasn't a black deed; it was foolish, it was
infatuation, it was not right, but it is common to shipboard; and I lost
my head, that was all."

Some time later I was still at work in the dispensary, when I heard Mr.
Treherne's voice calling to me from outside. I drew back the curtain. He
was leaning on his daughter's arm, while in one hand he carried a stick.
"Ah, Doctor, Doctor," cried he, "my old enemy, sciatica, has me in its
grip, and why, in this warm climate, I can't understand. I'm afraid I
shall have to heave-to, like the 'Fulvia', and lay up for repairs. And,
by the way, I'm glad we are on our course again." He entered, and sat
down. Belle Treherne bowed to me gravely, and smiled slightly. The smile
was not peculiarly hospitable. I knew perfectly well that to convince
her of the reality of my growing admiration for her would be no easy
task; but I was determined to base my new religion of the affections
upon unassailable canons, and I felt that now I could do best by waiting
and proving myself.

While I was arranging some medicine for Mr. Treherne, and advising him
on care against chills in a hot climate, he suddenly broke in with: "Dr.
Marmion, Captain Ascott tells me that we shall get to Aden by Tuesday
morning next. Now, I was asked by a friend of mine in London to visit
the grave of a son of his--a newspaper correspondent--who was killed in
one of the expeditions against the native tribes, and was buried in the
general cemetery at Aden. On the way out I was not able to fulfil the
commission, because we passed Aden in the night. But there will be
plenty of time to do so on Tuesday, I am told. This, however, is my
difficulty: I cannot go unless I am better,