“I really must protest,” said Mrs. Crawford. “Well, I will be a good girl and not ask for any information whatever,” said Daireen. But she was not destined to remain in complete ignorance on the subject which might reasonably be expected to interest her, for the doctor on seeing her hastened up, and, of course, Mrs. Crawford's protest was weak against his judgment. “My dear young lady,” he cried, shaking Daireen warmly by the hand. “You are anxious to know the sequel of the romance of last night, I am sure?” “No, no, Doctor Campion,” said Daireen almost mischievously; “Mrs. Crawford says I must hear nothing, and think about nothing, all this evening. Did you not say so, Mrs. Crawford?” “My dear child, Doctor Campion is supposed to know much better than myself how you should be treated in your present nervous condition. If he chooses to talk to you for an hour or two hours about drowning wretches, he may do so on his own responsibility.” “Drowning wretches!” said the doctor. “My dear madam, you have not been told all, or you would not talk in this way. He is no drowning wretch, but a gentleman; look at this--ah, I forgot it's not light enough for you to see the document, but Harwood there will tell you all that it contains.” “And what does that wonderful document contain, Mr. Harwood?” asked Mrs. Crawford. “Tell us, please, and we shall drop the subject.” “That document,” said Harwood, with affected solemnity; “it is a guarantee of the respectability of the possessor; it is a bank order for four hundred pounds, payable to one Oswin Markham, and it was, I understand, found upon the person of the man who has just been resuscitated through the skill of our good friend Doctor Campion.” “Now you will not call him a poor wretch, I am sure,” said the doctor. “He has now fully recovered consciousness, and, you see, he is a gentleman.” “You see that, no doubt, Mrs. Crawford,” said Harwood, in a tone that made the good physician long to have him for a few weeks on the sick list--the way the doctor had of paying off old scores. “Don't be sarcastic, Mr. Harwood,” said Daireen. Then she added, “What did you say the name was?--Oswin Markham? I like it--I like it very much.” “Hush,” said Mrs. Crawford. “Here is Mr. Glaston.” And it was indeed Mr. Glaston who ascended the rail with a languor of motion in keeping with the hour of twilight. With a few muttered words the doctor walked away. “I hear,” said Mr. Glaston, after he had shaken hands with Daireen--“I hear that there was some wreck or other picked up last night with a man clinging to it--a dreadfully vulgar fellow he must be to carry about with him a lot of money--a man with a name like what one would find attached to the hero of an East End melodrama.” There was a rather lengthened silence in that little group before Harwood spoke.