The door closed.
Captain Francis Newcombe did not go to bed. With the light out again, he sat there on the bunk.
Long minutes passed; they drifted into hours.
The man's figure became crouched, became a shape that lost human semblance, that was like unto some creature huddled in its lair; and the face was no longer human, for upon it was stamped the passions of hell; and the head became cocked curiously sideways in a strained attitude of attention, as though listening, listening, listening, always listening.
And there came a time when he spoke aloud, and called out hoarsely:
"Who's that? Who's whispering there? Who's calling Shadow Varne ... Shadow Varne ... Shadow Varne...."
And in answer the ship's bell struck the hour of dawn.