"But I understand your agents never got such stuff as we have got."
"They were agents and we are principals; I expect that accounts for something," Wyndham replied with a twinkle. "Besides, Wyndhams' never had a supercargo like you."
Marston frowned and tried to think of some other matters that had excited his curiosity, but could not make the effort, and Wyndham put a bottle and glasses on the table.
"Shut the books and I'll mix a cocktail," he said. "You're working too hard and it's very hot."
They went to bed soon afterwards and when he awoke Marston's head ached and he did not get up. He thought he had a dose of fever and felt strangely annoyed. Somehow he had not expected to get fever; he had thought Harry might get it, and to be kept in his bunk was a complication he had not reckoned on. Although Wyndham dosed him as the medical book directed, the fever did not abate. For some days he tossed about in his narrow bunk with a throbbing head and pain in his limbs, and then lay half-conscious in limp exhaustion. He had strange dreams and long remembered ones; indeed, he sometimes doubted if it were all a dream.
He imagined he was back at the factory on the African river and Wyndham's uncle, the man who vanished, was in the big mildewed room. Marston saw him come out of his door and stand for a moment listening, with his face touched by the moonlight; and then run forward and stop by the body on the boards. The dream was horribly vivid and real, but the big room got hazy and melted, as it were, into Columbine's cabin.
Marston saw the lamp, turned low, hang at an angle to the beams, and the charts and cargo books in the net rack. He smelt the mud and heard the ripples splash against the schooner's side. Somebody sat in front of the table and when the man looked up he saw it was Rupert Wyndham. Marston knew him because he had seen his portrait, but his hair had gone white and his skin very dark. In fact, he did not look like a white man. He got up and his face and bent figure melted as the room at the factory had melted, but very slowly got distinct again and Marston thrilled with repulsion and horror. Rupert Wyndham had changed to the old mulatto.
His naked feet made no noise as he crossed the floor and Marston struggled to get up but could not. His lips refused to move when he tried to call for help; the old fellow had fixed his bloodshot eyes on him and he felt powerless. The mulatto stopped by his bunk, holding out a glass, and Marston knew he meant to poison him. He resolved he would not drink, but felt he must. There was something in the fellow's steady look that broke his resistance and for a few moments he fought a horrible battle against a strange conquering force. Then he took the glass and drained it, and the mulatto melted away. He did not vanish. This implied suddenness; he faded out of the cabin by imperceptible degrees.
Marston knew no more and awoke in daylight, haunted by the dream. He was surprised to feel he was not worse; indeed, his head did not ache and although he was very weak the pain in his limbs had gone. His throat was parched and there was a strange taste in his mouth, as if he had swallowed the draught he dreamed about. Wyndham sat on the locker and got up when he saw Marston was awake.
"You look different. I think you have seen the worst," he said. "I've been bothered about you, Bob."