All at once his eyes opened and he fell to staring at the heavy oaken beams crisscrossing the ceiling. Presently they closed again, and he fell to whispering softly in that brainless self-absorption that characterizes the sayings of unconsciousness: “I’ll catch you--jump! A fool-- Yes! God--I’ve not lived according to the Pure Food Law lately. Laurence, where are you? Get busy ... there’s no time!” The four men around the bed glanced at one another. To two of them, Régis and Salvières, who had known Preston in other days, this persistent and purely mechanical survival of originality in speech verged on the sinister, and they turned about with a simultaneous motion. They felt like running away. The abbé had knelt down by the bed and was whispering something that the others could not hear, so they drew back farther yet. “You say he will live?” Salvières asked of the young doctor. “Yes--that is, I think so, Monsieur le Duc,” was the guarded answer. “But I am almost certain that there is some grave injury to the spine; the lower part of the body seems--inert.” “Struck on a rock or on a bit of wreckage, you think?” “Very likely. But one can’t tell yet without a more thorough examination. Where did you find him, Monsieur le Marquis?” the young medico asked of Régis. “Caught him on the rebound, as it were,” the latter replied, “from the heart of a wave. I saw an arm dark against the foam by the light of our lanterns, and grabbed at it. It was not so difficult, though the force of the pull nearly wrenched my own arm out of its socket.” The doctor nodded. “I dare not move him until I can find out what is really the matter. He must be kept here for the present.” He was interrupted by the opening of the door. On the sill stood the captain of the life-savers, one rough hand to the dripping brim of his sou’wester. “_Pardon, Monsieur le Duc_,” he said, “another live un with a broken arm brought ashore. He is here outside. He says he’s the first mate of the _Wild Rose_.” “Ah,” muttered Salvières, “perhaps now we can hear how all this came to pass.” And with a quick caution to Régis he hurried into the passage. The man standing outside the door, one arm hanging limply at his side, was white under his tan and glistening with wet. He was a handsome chap above the middle height, with a trim blond beard cut to a point in naval style, clear gray eyes, and--even in this crisis--a rather proud way of carrying his head. Salvières looked sharply at him. The horrors of that terrible summer night, the long swim ashore, and the pain of his hurt had left their mark quite unmistakably on the second-in-command of the big steam-yacht that had just foundered; but this did not affect the impassiveness so well in keeping with the square jaw and firm lips of the man. “When the doctor has set your arm I wish to have a talk with you,” Salvières said. “Sit down. I’ll fetch you some brandy”; and he pointed to the stone bench running along the wall.