"That's right down fine of you. I knew you'd do it when you understood." She looked him full in the face and smiled. "There are some things no woman can misunderstand. I shall not be very long. Please let her talk as little as possible." "Ah!" he said, fallen to a grave manner. "I fear this is a bad business altogether." She did not ask him why, nor had she any clue to his meaning. The whole affair was a mystery which could have but a human solution. She made light of the romantic story concerning Louis de Paleologue, and believed, with a feminine instinct for the obvious, that vulgar flirtation had been the impulse of Faber's journey. All this hurt her pride, but could not be the just subject of complaint. Tenaciously she clung to the idea that she might yet use this master intellect for the schemes which had lifted her father and herself from the slough of monotony to a little place in the story of the world. This very accident, this revelation of a man's weakness, might be a precious opportunity, however deeply her vanity suffered. If she succeeded, her triumph must be the greater; if she failed----But failure was a word which Gabrielle Silvester refused to add to her vocabulary. So she went over to the _Wanderer_ to tell her father of the sick girl, and to add, almost in a whisper, "I believe there's a good deal in it." To which Silvester replied that he was sorry to hear it, "for," said he, "there is no man alive who could do so great a work if he would come over to us." II Faber went straight down to Maryska's cabin and found her crouching upon a pillow. The long, jet black hair had been taken down, and lay in a tangled skein about her; she was very pale, and her eyes glowed as with a fever. Evidently she had been listening for his footsteps, for she turned instantly when he came in and fixed her eyes upon him. "It's Mr. Faber," she said, but without satisfaction. He took a chair and drew it to her bedside. "Well, Maryska, are you feeling better, my dear?" She paid not the slightest heed to the question. Sitting up in bed, she closed her gown about her chest and breathed a little heavily. Then she said, without warning: "Where is my father?" He bent his head, fearing to meet her gaze. "My dear little girl, you'll remember all about that presently." There was a long pause upon this. "Yes," she said at last, and still apparently unmoved; "I do remember. Why did you let him die, Mr. Faber?" "I, Maryska? I had nothing to do with it. If he had taken my advice he would not have left the Pasha's side. I was quite a long way off when it happened." She insisted, looking at him with pathetic eyes. "If you had not come to Ragusa, he would not have left me. I am sorry you came. Shall I be kept here long?" "Do you mean in this ship?" "Yes, of course. Is it your ship, then?" "It's my ship--at least, I've hired it. Don't you like it, my dear?" She looked round about her critically.