“Yes,” she said carelessly, “I can remain here for an hour or two with him. He requires only a few simple remedies—I’ve already given him a sedative, and he is sleeping very nicely.”
“Yess, yess; it iss not grave. Pooh! It is notting. He slip and knock his head. Maybe too much 207 tchampagne. He sleep, and by and by he feel better. It iss not advisable to make a fuss. So! We are not longer needed, steward. I return to my room.”
And, nodding pleasantly, the bearded man hobbled out on his crutches and entered his own stateroom across the passage.
“Steward,” said the nurse pleasantly, “you may leave the wireless telegram with me. When Mr. Neeland wakes I’ll read it to him––”
“Give that telegram to me!” burst out a ghostly voice from the curtained room behind her.
Every atom of colour left her face, and she stood there as though stiffened into marble. The steward stared at her. Still staring, he passed gingerly in front of her and entered the curtained room.
Neeland was lying on his bed as white as death; but his eyes fluttered open in a dazed way:
“Steward,” he whispered.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Neeland.”
“My—box.” His eyes closed.