“I wonder, Mr. Sabin, whether you ever heard of an Indian nut called, I believe, the Fakella? They say that an oil distilled from its kernel is the most deadly poison in the world.”
“I have both heard of it and seen it,” Mr. Sabin answered. “In fact, I may say, that I have tasted it—on the tip of my finger.”
“And yet,” the captain remarked, laughing, “you are alive.”
“And yet I am alive,” Mr. Sabin echoed. “But there is nothing very wonderful in that. I am poison-proof.”
Mr. Watson was in the act of raising a hastily filled glass to his lips when his eyes met Mr. Sabin’s. He set it down hurriedly, white to the lips. He knew, then! Surely there must be something supernatural about the man. A conviction of his own absolute impotence suddenly laid hold of him. He was completely shaken. Of what use were the ordinary weapons of his kind against an antagonist such as this? He knew nothing of the silent evidence against him on deck. He could only attribute Mr. Sabin’s foreknowledge of what had been planned against him to the miraculous. He stumbled to his feet, and muttering something about some cigars, left his place. Mrs. Watson rose almost immediately afterwards. As she turned to walk down the saloon she dropped her handkerchief. Mr. Sabin, who had risen while she passed out, stooped down and picked it up. She took it with a smile of thanks and whispered in his ear—
“Come on deck with me quickly; I want to speak to you.”
He obeyed, turning round and making some mute sign to the captain. She walked swiftly up the stairs after a frightened glance down the corridor to their state-rooms. A fresh breeze blew in their faces as they stepped out on deck, and Mr. Sabin glanced at her bare neck and arms.
“You will be cold,” he said. “Let me fetch you a wrap.”
“Don’t leave me,” she exclaimed quickly. “Walk to the side of the steamer. Don’t look behind.”
Mr. Sabin obeyed. Directly she was sure that they were really beyond earshot of any one she laid her hand upon his arm.