"How is Palmer?"
"Bad. The strain coming on top of the narcotic has played havoc with him. The other men are progressing favourably; but Gerald, old man, where's your shaving-mirror? Then hold it so that you can see the back of your head."
Tregarthen did so, and to his surprise he found that on his dark brown hair was a patch as white as snow, almost the size of a man's hand.
"That's strange, Jack. I remember putting my hand to my head when the boat began to tilt. It's a case of utter funk, I suppose."
"You've something to remember the eighty-fathom dive by for the rest of your natural life."
"I don't want that to remind me," replied Gerald, with a shudder.
"Well, it's all over now, and little harm done; but do you know there was something very remarkable about that message you sent up? You gave an account of everything that happened save one thing—the object of your trip. You never mentioned the missing wireless gear."
[Illustration: CHAPTER XXIV]