He and the porter listened. The gentleman was not mistaken, for now a second groan sounded out, more loudly than the first.
"Your room-mate must be sick!" cried the porter. "Hi, there, sir, please open the door?" he called.
But Robert paid no attention, for he was not yet conscious. The porter dug away at the paper wad, and at last extricated it from the keyhole. Then he inserted the key and swung the door back.
Both men uttered exclamations of horror, for Robert lay across the lower berth unconscious, and with a small stream of blood running over his temple and cheek.
"Gracious! This looks like suicide!" ejaculated Mr. Pelham. "Run for the captain and a doctor, quick!"
The porter needed no second bidding, and made off with all speed. When he returned he found that Mr. Pelham had propped Robert up on a pillow and bound up the small wound on our hero's head with a handkerchief.
"Whe--where is he?" were Robert's first words.
"He? Who?" asked the men who surrounded him.
"Frederic Vernon, the man who struck me down."
"So you were struck down?" said the captain of the steamer.