"Indeed yes," Ryder admitted, with a chuckle, the drink Jimson had mixed for him having had a soothing effect. "But we were neither of us thinking of honeymoons when we embarked on the _Minnequago_." The man started. "You--you mean when you embarked on the ship? You only landed from her yesterday morning?" "That is when she docked," the puzzled Ryder replied. "We were married not long after. My wife, you see, is an English girl----" "An English girl! Yes?" A faint tone of disappointment colored the remark. White subsided for a moment into deep thought. Suddenly, as Ryder was about to rise, the other clutched his arm feverishly. "I beg your pardon! One other question--if you will bear with me, Mr. Ryder. Will--will you tell me your wife's name? "Why, Ryder!" ejaculated the other. "I--I mean before she was married?" "Mont--Ruth Mont," and Ryder broke away from the man and walked to the desk to set his empty glass upon the counter. George was telling a story--one of those interminably long yarns which begin, "There was an Irishman, and." He was the only person who was facing the divan on which White was sitting. Suddenly the clerk's face turned puttylike, and he stopped, his jaw hanging. He glared over the shoulders of his audience. "What's the matter with you?" demanded the nervous Jimson, jumping up. "Look there!" exclaimed George. "What's the matter with that man?" They all wheeled at his question to look. But while the others were moved first by White's appearance, as George had been, Ryder saw the face of Miss Solomons, the house detective, hanging over the balustrade of the stairs, just above the place where he had been sitting with White. She dodged back out of sight; and then Ryder saw what had startled the hotel clerk. White had slid down in his seat, with only the small of his back resting on its edge, the back of his head rigidly against the settee back and his legs stretched stiffly before him. His face was purple in color and he was gasping for breath. "The man's in a fit!" cried Jimson. There was a concerted rush toward White, all but Ryder joining in the stampede. He remained by the desk, staring up the stairway and wondering what was the matter with Miss Solomons, who he supposed had gone back to her broken sleep in the parlor chair. "What the deuce does the girl want?" he thought. "Was she spying on me or on White? And what is the matter with White, all of a sudden? What threw him into such a state? What did he ask me last? Why! Ruth's maiden name----" George came charging back to the desk. "I say, Mr. Ryder! isn't Doctor Hoyle up in your rooms?" "I left him there," grumbled Ryder. "He and my wife are putting that Judson woman to bed." George tore around the desk to the telephone. He stuck the proper plug into the board and began to pump the annunciator in Ryder's apartment. The other men picked the stiffened White up and laid him on the couch. CHAPTER XIII