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.

"Yes," he repeated, "as a cook you're a failure, Scheherazade. That
broth which you seasoned for me has done funny things to my eyes, too.
But they're recovering. I see much better already. My vision is
becoming sufficiently clear to observe how pretty you are in your
nurse's cap and apron."

A slow colour came into her face and he saw her eyebrows bend inward
as though she were annoyed.

"You _are_ pretty, Scheherazade," he repeated. "You know you are,
don't you? But you're a poor cook and a rotten shot. You can't be
perfection, you know. Cheer up!"

She ignored the suggestion, her dark eyes brooding and remote again;
and he lay watching her with placid interest in which no rancour
remained. He was feeling decidedly better every minute now. He lifted
the automatic pistol and shoved it under his pillow, then cautiously
flexed his fingers, his arms, and finally his knees, with increasing
pleasure and content.

"Such dreadful soup," he said. "But I'm a lot better, thank you. Was
it to have been murder this time, t