The Doctor was talking.
“Then,” he was saying, “who the devil are you?”
The other smiled, a gentle, triumphant smile. The smile of a man who, humbly recognising himself at a just estimation, is conscious of having outwitted another, cleverer than himself.
“You finish your pipe,” he said, and he walked away with long firm strides towards the saloon stairs. The Doctor went to the rail, where, resting his arms on the solid teak, he leant, gazing thoughtfully out over the sea, which was part of his life. For he knew the great waters, and loved them with all the quiet strength of a slow-tongued man.
Before very long some one came behind and touched him on the shoulder. He turned, and in the fading light looked into the smiling face of his late companion—the same and yet quite different, for the beard was gone, and there only remained the long fair moustache.
“Yes,” said Dr. Mark Ruthine, “Jem Agar. I was a fool not to know you at first.”
A sort of shyness flickered for a moment in the blue eyes.
“I have been practising so hard during the last ten months to look like some one else that I hardly feel like myself,” he said.
“Um-m! There was something uncanny about you when you first came on board. I used to watch you at meals, and wonder what it was. By God, Agar, I am glad!”
“Thanks,” replied Jem Agar. He was looking round him rather nervously. “You don't think there is anybody on board who will know me, do you?”