read it to him----"

"Give that telegram to _me_!" burst out a ghostly voice from the
curtained room behind her.

Every atom of colour left her face, and she stood there as though
stiffened into marble. The steward stared at her. Still staring, he
passed gingerly in front of her and entered the curtained room.

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'