ed gently. There was no
response. I entered. He lay sleeping soundly--the sleep that comes after
nervous exhaustion. I had a good chance to study him as he lay there.
The face was sensitive and well fashioned, but not strong; the hands
were delicate, yet firmly made. One hand was clinched upon that portion
of his breast where the portrait hung.

CHAPTER IV. THE TRAIL OF THE ISHMAELITE

I went on deck again, and found Clovelly in the smoking-room. The
bookmaker was engaged in telling tales of the turf, alternated with
comic songs by Blackburn--an occupation which lasted throughout the
voyage, and was associated with electric appeals to the steward to fill
the flowing bowl. Clovelly came with me, and we joined Miss Treherne
and her father. Mr. Treherne introduced me to his daughter, and Clovelly
amiably drew the father into a discussion of communism as found in the
South Sea Islands.

I do not think my conversation with Miss Treherne was brilliant. She has
since told me that I appeared self-conscious and preoccupied. This being
no compliment to her, I was treated accordingly. I could have endorsed
Clovelly's estimate of her so far as her reserve and sedateness were
concerned. It seemed impossible to talk naturally. The events of the day
were interrupting the ordinary run of thought, and I felt at a miserable
disadvantage. I saw, however, that the girl was gifted and clear of
mind, and possessed of great physical charm, but of that fine sort which
must be seen in suitable surroundings to be properly appreciated.
Here on board ship a sweet gravity and a proud decorum--not altogether
unnecessary--prevented her from being seen at once to the best
advantage. Even at this moment I respected her the more for it, and was
not surprised, nor exactly displeased, that she adroitly drew her father
and Clovelly into the conversation. With Clovelly she seemed to find
immediate ground for naive and pleasant talk; on his part, deferential,
original, and attentive; on hers, easy, allusive, and warmed with
piquant humour. I admired her; saw how cleverly Clovelly was making the
most of her; guessed at the solicitude, studious care, and affection of
her bringing-up; watched the fond pleasure of the father as he listened;
and was angry with myself that Mrs. Falchion's voice rang in my ears at
the same moment as hers. But it did ring there, and the real value of
that smart tournament of ideas was partially lost to me.

The next mornin