Now and then he glanced at Wyndham. The latter did not move and looked straight in front, but his quietness was significant and his mouth was firm. Marston imagined he bore some strain, but it was often hard to tell what Harry felt and thought. At length, Don Felix moved his hand awkwardly, as if he felt for something to which he could cling, and the slack movement did not stop until he felt Father Sebastian's grasp. His haunted look was plainer, although he was now too weak to glance at the door. It jarred Marston strangely, and getting up he went out. Half-an-hour afterwards there was a wild cry in the house and Marston shivered. It was the woman's voice and he knew why she had cried out. Then Wyndham came to the door, and standing with his back against the light, looked about for his comrade. "We need not stay now," he said. "He was calm at the last and had all the consolation Father Sebastian could give him. An honest man, and brave, I think, believing what it's obvious he did believe!" "He trusted you," Marston remarked, meaningly. "It's possible he found our being about some help. We stayed while we were needed." "That is not what I mean," Marston rejoined. "If ever I saw a man fight with fear, I watched the horrible battle to-night! The fellow was your agent and somebody who destroyed his body sent an unthinkable horror to torment his mind. The thing's devilish! What are you going to do about it?" "What can I do?" said Wyndham. "I have nothing to go upon." Marston made a sign of agreement, but his face was very stern. "Some day, perhaps, we'll find out who's accountable. I mean to try." Wyndham said nothing and they went back to the canoe. CHAPTER X MARSTON USES HIS POWER Soon after Don Felix was buried two strangers visited the schooner. One was white but so burned by the sun and worn by the climate that he looked like a native. Peters was agent for a Hamburg merchant house with a factory on a neighboring lagoon, and told Wyndham he had come because he seldom met a white man. The other was a government officer and stated, apologetically, that his business was to make a few inquiries about Don Felix's death. His skin was nearly white, but his coarse lips and short, curling hair indicated a strain of negro blood. Marston knew something about the officials who held small posts on the Caribbean coast. For the most part, they were mulattos, paid low wages and willing to augment the latter by presents and bribes. As a rule, he had found them good-humored and indolent, and he imagined Don Ramon Larrinaga would be satisfied with a few particulars and a little money. There was, he thought, no use in trying to put him on the track of the unknown poisoner. He let Wyndham take the man to the cabin and sat under the awning on deck with Peters, for whom he opened a bottle of vermouth.