His face sobered in an instant.
"Martigny is his name," he said, "and he's in very bad shape. He must have been desperately anxious to get back to France. Why, he might have dropped over dead there on the gang-plank."
"It's a disease of the heart?"
"Yes—far advanced. He can't get well, of course, but he may live on indefinitely, if he's careful."
"He's still confined to his bed?"
"Oh, yes—he won't leave it during the voyage, if he takes my advice. He's got to give his heart just as little work as possible, or it'll throw up the job altogether. He has mighty little margin to go on."
I turned the talk to other things, and in a few moments he went on along his rounds. But I was not long alone, for I saw Miss Kemball coming toward me, looking a very Diana, wind-blown and rosy-cheeked.
"So mal-de-mer has laid its hand on you, too, Mr. Lester!" she cried.
"Only a finger," I said. "But a finger is enough. Won't you take pity on a poor landsman and talk to him?"
"But that's reversing our positions!" she protested, sitting down, nevertheless, to my great satisfaction. "It was you who were to be the entertainer! Is our Mephisto abroad yet?" she asked, in a lower tone. "I, too, am feeling his fascination—I long for another glimpse of him."