“I wonder,” she said, “if I am as cruel as you think me--for, indeed, I do not know. But I have been through many things.” Here her eyes grew cold and hard. The words that followed seemed in no sequence. “Yet,” she said, “I will go and see him to-morrow.... Good-night.” After about an hour I went below to Galt Roscoe’s cabin. I drew aside the curtain quietly. Justine Caron evidently had not heard me. She was sitting beside the sick man, her fingers still smoothing away the pillow from his fevered face and her eyes fixed on him. I spoke to her. She rose. “He has slept well,” she said. And she moved to the door. “Miss Caron,” I said, “if Mrs. Falchion is willing, you could help me to nurse Mr. Roscoe?” A light sprang to her eyes. “Indeed, yes,” she said. “I will speak to her about it, if you will let me?” She bowed her head, and her look was eloquent of thanks. After a word of good-night we parted. I knew that nothing better could occur to my patient than that Justine Caron should help to nurse him. This would do far more for him than medicine--the tender care of a woman--than many pharmacopoeias. Hungerford had insisted on relieving me for a couple of hours at midnight. He said it would be a good preparation for going on the bridge at three o’clock in the morning. About half-past two he came to my cabin and waked me, saying: “He is worse--delirious; you had better come.” He was indeed delirious. Hungerford laid his hand on my shoulder. “Marmion,” he said, “that woman is in it. Like the devil, she is ubiquitous. Mr. Roscoe’s past is mixed up with hers somehow. I don’t suppose men talk absolute history in delirium, but there is no reason, I fancy, why they shouldn’t paraphrase. I should reduce the number of nurses to a minimum if I were you.” A determined fierceness possessed me at the moment. I said to him: “She shall nurse him, Hungerford--she, and Justine Caron, and myself.” “Plus Dick Hungerford,” he added. “I don’t know quite how you intend to work this thing, but you have the case in your hands, and what you’ve told me about the French girl shows that she is to be trusted. But as for myself, Marmion M.D., I’m sick--sick--sick of this woman, and all her words and works. I believe that she has brought bad luck to this ship; and it’s my last voyage on it; and--and I begin to think you’re a damned good fellow--excuse the insolence of it; and--good-night.” For the rest of the night I listened to Galt Roscoe’s wild words. He tossed from side to side, and murmured brokenly. Taken separately, and as they were spoken, his words might not be very significant, but pieced together, arranged, and interpreted through even scant knowledge of circumstances, they were sufficient to give me a key to difficulties which, afterwards, were to cause much distress. I arrange some of the sentences here to show how startling were the fancies--or remembrances--that vexed him.