Paul reëntered the skipper's room, remembering that he had seen an ulster and a mackintosh hanging in a corner to the right of the desk. He swept them on to his arm in his bewilderment. It was one thing to outfit a man; another to garb a woman. His eye caught a pair of socks hanging over the edge of a half-open drawer under McGavock's berth. He snatched these. He added a pair of straw sandals, whose toes protruded from under the settee across the rear bulkhead, to his collection and also a blanket—a fine white California blanket which lay in a roll at the foot of the berth. It was the best he could think of doing at the moment.
Emily was shivering on the divan when he returned to her.
"Lie down there, dear," he said, "and I'll tuck you in and bring you some coffee—something warm, anyway—and some food."
"No, no, no," she said, starting up. "Don't leave me here—alone. Not now. I know the dead can't hurt one, but—I must go with you. When all's said and done, Paul—I'm only—only a woman——"
She took the ulster from him and slipped it on. It was large enough to have wrapped her round twice. She plunged her feet into the warm woollen socks and gave a little sigh of pleasure.
"I—I feel better already."
"Now put these on."
Paul handed her the sandals, and as she took them she studied them for a second, only to glance up at him with a startled expression.
"These are a woman's, Paul," she whispered. "And that——"
She indicated the mackintosh, and he held it out before him.