"That you, Ellison?" I asked.
"Yes, sir."
"I want to look at that man Adams in the forecastle," I said. "Please accompany me, as I may need your assistance."
I descended the ladder and went forward till I reached the cabin which I had used as a hospital, and turned the handle of the door. It opened, but the darkness was profound, and Ellison struck a match and lit the lamp. Adams lay in his bunk groaning faintly. I turned up his sleeve and examined him. The wound was inflamed, as I had expected, and it was not that which arrested me, but a mark on the arm above the elbow. It was the prick of the hypodermic syringe. My doubts were now certainties.
As we stood there Adams opened his eyes, and struggled into a sitting posture.
"No, my man," said I, "you must keep to your back."
He stared at me, but allowed me to force him backwards, and continued to stare.
"Adams, can you understand?" said I firmly. "Gray struck you with a knife?"
"Between the shoulders, damn him," he growled sulkily. "Doctor, my head's bad—give me something to drink."
I had come prepared, and I did so, and he fell back with a sigh, showing more signs of alertness.