Very little had been seen of Dr. Krausz and Adolf Jenson; most of their meals had been served in their large cabin; and from the quantities of mail sent out at each port of call, it had been evident that the scientist was hard at work.
That afternoon, however, while Hammer was splitting a bottle of beer with Harcourt in the comparative coolness of the latter's cabin, the steward appeared. He was a quiet little Englishman, who had formerly acted as Harcourt's valet in more prosperous days, and had chosen to remain with his master.
"Mr. Harcourt," he said, hesitantly, "I'd like to ask you about something, sir."
"Very well, Roberts. What's on your mind, my man?"
"Why, sir"—and the steward twisted his cap nervously—"it's Dr. Krausz, sir. I'm—I'm afraid as he's going it a bit strong, Mr. Harcourt."
"Eh? What do you mean?"
"Why, him and that—that yeller-faced swine Jenson"—and Roberts spat out the words with a sudden viciousness that was astounding—"I've been a-taking them champagne, sir, all morning, and a half-hour ago Dr. Krausz he sent for a bottle o' brandy, sir. I thought, maybe, as how you might drop a word to him, sir. It's a mortal bad climate, you know, sir, for such goings-on."
Harcourt stared at the American, surprise plain in his eyes.
"My word!" he ejaculated. "I'd positively no idea that he was a tippler, 'pon my word! Has this been going on long, Roberts?"
"Off and on, sir, since we left Gibraltar. But not so heavy as this, Mr. Harcourt."