The Dark Star

Neeland groaned.

“Oh, don’t! Don’t!” faltered the girl. “You’re breaking his wrist–”

“Ugh!” grunted her companion; “I try; I can it not accomplish. See once if the box opens!”

“It is locked.”

“Search this pig-dog for the key!”

She began a hurried search of Neeland’s clothing; presently discovered her own handkerchief; thrust it into her apron pocket, and continued rummaging while the bearded man turned his attention to the automatic pistol. This he finally succeeded in disengaging, and he laid it on the wash basin.

“Here are his keys,” whispered the nurse feverishly, holding them up against the dim circle of evening sky framed by the open port. “You had better light the stateroom; I can’t see. Hurry! I think he is beginning to recover.”

When the bearded man had switched on the electric light he returned to kneel once more beside the inert body on the floor, and began to pull and haul and tug at the box and attempt to insert the key in the lock. But the stiffened clutch of the drugged man made it impossible either to release the box or get at the keyhole.

“Ach, was! Verflüchtete’ schwein-hund–!” He seized the rigid hand and, exerting all the strength of a brutally inflamed fury, fairly ripped loose the fingers.

“Also!” he panted, seizing the stiffened body from the floor and lifting it. “Hold you him by the long and Yankee legs once, und I push him out–”

“Out of the port?”

“Gewiss! Otherwise he recovers to raise some hell!”

“It is not necessary. How shall this man know?”

“You left your handkerchief. He iss no fool. He makes a noise. No, it iss safer we push him overboard.”

“I’ll take the papers to Karl, and then I can remain in my stateroom–”

“No! Lift his legs, I tell you! You want I hold him in my arms all day while you talk, talk, talk! You take his legs right away quick–!”

He staggered a few paces forward with his unwieldy burden and, setting one knee on the sofa, attempted to force Neeland’s head and shoulders through the open port. At the same moment a rapid knocking sounded outside the stateroom door.

“Quick!” breathed the nurse. “Throw him on his bed!”

The blue-eyed, golden-bearded man hesitated, then as the knocking sounded again, imperative, persistent, he staggered to the bed with his burden, laid it on the pillows, seized his crutches, rested on them, breathing heavily, and listening to the loud and rapid knocking outside the door.

“We’ve got to open,” she whispered. “Don’t forget that we found him unconscious in the corridor!” And she slid the bolt noiselessly, opened the stateroom door, and stepped outside the curtain into the corridor.

The cockney steward stood there with a messenger.

“Wireless for Mr. Neeland–” he began; but his speech failed and his jaw fell at sight of the nurse in her cap and uniform. And when, on his crutches, the bearded man emerged from behind the curtain, the steward’s eyes fairly protruded.

“The young gentleman is ill,” explained the nurse coolly. “Mr. Hawks heard him fall in the corridor and came out on his crutches to see what had happened. I chanced to be passing through the main corridor, fortunately. I am doing what I can for the young gentleman.”

“Ow,” said the steward, staring over her shoulder at the bearded man on crutches.

“There iss no need of calling the ship’s doctor,” said the man on crutches. “This young woman iss a hospital nurse und she iss so polite and obliging to volunteer her service for the poor young gentleman.”

“Yes,” she said carelessly, “I can remain here for an hour or two with him. He requires only a few simple remedies – I’ve already given him a sedative, and he is sleeping very nicely.”

“Yess, yess; it iss not grave. Pooh! It is notting. He slip and knock his head. Maybe too much tchampagne. He sleep, and by and by he feel better. It iss not advisable to make a fuss. So! We are not longer needed, steward. I return to my room.”

And, nodding pleasantly, the bearded man hobbled out on his crutches and entered his own stateroom across the passage.

“Steward,” said the nurse pleasantly, “you may leave the wireless telegram with me. When Mr. Neeland wakes I’ll read it to him–”

“Give that telegram to me!” burst out a ghostly voice from the curtained room behind her.

Every atom of colour left her face, and she stood there as though stiffened into marble. The steward stared at her. Still staring, he passed gingerly in front of her and entered the curtained room.

Neeland was lying on his bed as white as death; but his eyes fluttered open in a dazed way:

“Steward,” he whispered.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Neeland.”

“My – box.” His eyes closed.

“Box, sir?”

“Where – is – it?”

“Which box, sir? Is it this one here on the floor?” – lifting the olive-wood box in its case. The key was in the lock; the other keys hung from it, dangling on a steel ring.

The nurse stepped calmly into the room.

“Steward,” she said in her low, pleasant voice, “the sedative I gave him has probably confused his mind a little–”

“Put that box – under – my head,” interrupted Neeland’s voice like a groan.

“I tell you,” whispered the nurse, “he doesn’t know what he is saying.”

“I got to obey him, ma’am–”

“I forbid you–”

“Steward!” gasped Neeland.

“Sir?”

“My box. I – want it.”

“Certainly, sir–”

“Here, beside my – pillow.”

“Yes, sir.” He laid the box beside the sick man.