He had refused to go away when he had a chance, and now, here he was, held prisoner while, if there had been foul play, the persons responsible would have ample time to make what arrangements they pleased. He could very well imagine how his tale would sound to the police. “Good Lord!” he said to himself. “What a fool I’ve been!” VI It seemed to Ross that the great noise of the wind outside was mingled now with the throb of engines and the rushing of water. He thought he felt the lift and roll of the ship beneath him; he thought he was lying in his berth again, on his way across the dark waste of waters, toward New York. He wondered what New York would be like. Phyllis Barron was knocking at his door, telling him to hurry, hurry and come on deck. This did not surprise him; he was only immensely relieved and glad. “I knew you’d come!” he wanted to say, but he could not speak. He tried to get up and dress and go out to her, but he could not move. He made a desperate struggle to call to her. “Wait! Wait!” he tried to say. “I’m asleep. But I’ll wake in a minute. Please don’t go away!” Then, with a supreme effort, he did wake. He opened his eyes. There was Eddy, stretched out on his two chairs, sound asleep. And there was a muffled knocking at the door, and a little wailing voice: “Eddy! Eddy! Oh, _can’t_ you hear me? Eddy!” For a moment Ross thought it was an echo from his dream, but, as the drowsiness cleared from his head, he knew it was real. He got up and touched the sleeping youth on the shoulder. “There’s some one calling you!” he said. Eddy opened his eyes with an alert expression and glared at Ross. “What?” he demanded, sternly. “No monkey tricks, now!” As a matter-of-fact, he was still more than half asleep, and Ross had to repeat his statement twice before it was understood. Then he sprang up, pushed aside the chairs, and unlocked the door. It was Miss Solway. She came in, like a wraith; she was wrapped in a fur coat, but she looked cold, pale, affrighted; her black eyes wide, her misty dark hair in disorder; a fit figure for a dream. “Eddy!” she said. “Go away!” “Lookit here, Miss Amy,” Eddy protested, anxiously. “Wait till morning.” “But it _is_ morning!” she cried. “Go away, Eddy! Quick! I want to speak to— Go away, do! I only have a minute to spare.” “Morning!” thought Ross. He looked at his watch, which showed a few minutes past six; then at the window. It was as black as ever outside. “Lookit here, Miss Amy,” Eddy began again. “If I was you, I’d—” “Get out, fool!” she cried. “Idiot! This instant!” Her fierce and sudden anger astounded Ross. Her eyes had narrowed, her nostrils dilated, her short upper lip was drawn up in a sort of snarl. Yet this rage was in no way repellent; it was like the fury of some beautiful little animal. He could perfectly understand Eddy’s answering in a tone of resigned indulgence. “All right, Miss Amy. Have it your own way.”