The doctor, a few days later, paused in his morning promenade and took a vacant place by Claire’s side. He made a few commonplace remarks about the voyage, and then leaned confidentially towards her.

“Miss Endacott, I want to speak to you for a moment, if I may, about young Ballaston.”

The sensitive lips quivered a little. Nevertheless she had self-control.

“Well, Doctor?”

“I don’t exactly know what has happened, of course,” he went on, “but you two were such pals at first, and now one can’t help noticing that you scarcely speak. Ballaston hasn’t said a word to me. This is all on my own, but I imagine that somehow or other, he has succeeded in offending you.”

“He has,” she acquiesced coldly.

“I don’t hold any brief for the young man,” the doctor proceeded, “but I can’t help wondering whether you know what he’s been through just lately. He’s had a wonderful adventure and played his part like a man. I won’t say a word about the morality of it, or the object of it, or anything else. I’ll only say that it was a jolly plucky thing to attempt and he only escaped with his life by a miracle.”

“I have heard all this,” Claire admitted.

“It is always after an exploit of this sort that one runs a danger of suffering from nerves. That’s precisely what’s happened to young Ballaston. In his stateroom down below he has that Image which he risked his life for, and he’s adopted the legend about it in a way I should never have dreamed a young fellow with his strength of character could have done. You know the legend?”

“I have heard it.”

“Well, Ballaston honestly believes that every hour he spends with this Image is doing him harm morally and that very belief is apt to make him behave at odd times impossibly. The thing won’t last, of course. He’ll get used to it, and the idea will pass out of his brain. It is there just now, and I tell you frankly that I believe it is likely to influence his actions.”

There was more and more interest in Claire’s face, a little tinge of returning colour. She leaned forward. The icy note had gone from her tone.

“How extraordinary!” she exclaimed. “I—well, to tell you the truth, Doctor, the other night when we were dancing, when I was offended, I thought that he had had too much to drink.”

The doctor shook his head.

“It wasn’t that at all,” he assured her gravely. “Now, mind you, Miss Endacott, I’m not defending Ballaston. I don’t even know what the cause of offence was—certainly I’m not trying to interfere in any way—but he is suffering, and suffering terribly, and it isn’t doing him any good to be cut off from you. If you could just remember that, you might be able to help him, perhaps more than any one else.”

“I will remember,” she promised. “Thank you very much indeed.”

The doctor took his leave and Claire sat gazing out to sea with a kindlier expression in her face. A few minutes later, Gregory left the smoking room, and, seeing her, was turning the other way. She called to him softly.

“Mr. Ballaston.”

He glanced around in surprise.

“Mr. Ballaston, please come here for a moment.”

He approached slowly and stood before her, bareheaded. As she looked at him her pity increased. His eyes were very brilliant but they seemed to have sunken, and he was certainly thinner in the face.

“Will you sit down and talk to me for a little time, please,” she invited.

“If you wish me to,” he replied diffidently.

“I think that perhaps I was silly about the other night,” she went on. “I perhaps—misunderstood.”

“You didn’t,” he groaned.

“Please don’t say that,” she begged. “I want to believe that I did, and I want you to please be nice to me again and be different.”

“Has any one been talking to you?” he asked.

“The doctor spoke a few words,” she admitted.

“It is sweet of you,” he declared dejectedly, “but you mustn’t believe the doctor altogether. It isn’t exactly nerves. I was never much good and you’re such a child. I’m not good enough now to talk and dance with you on equal terms. I feel this all the time. For two days I have hated you because it is through you I know what I am. And I don’t mind telling you that I hate you,” he went on, “because——”

“Because?” she questioned.

“Because I care for you more than any one else in the world,” he concluded.

She laughed, but very kindly. Her eyes were softer than he had ever seen them, and there was a new flush in her cheeks.

“It is just as silly for you to say that as the other,” she declared, “considering that I have known you exactly—what is it?—eleven, twelve days. Now, could we talk nonsense, please, or go for a walk. We start again, and you see—I trust you.”

“I shouldn’t,” he warned her gloomily. “I’m not trustworthy, and you’ll find it out before long.”

“I’ll wait until I do,” she decided. “Come along. This morning I need movement. It isn’t nearly so hot, and there hasn’t been any one to do things with the last few days. We’ll play deck tennis on the upper deck, and then go for a swim.”

They passed the whole morning together. The doctor, seeing them, waved his hand cordially. The captain stopped and exchanged a few good-humoured words. Everything seemed to be once more as it should be. Gregory was quite as distinctly the best-looking and most attractive young man on board as Claire was the most charming girl, and nearly every one seemed pleased that the little misunderstanding which had kept them apart was apparently removed. Gossip, not ill-natured, but natural enough, recommenced. Gregory, heir to a baronetcy, poor, perhaps, but with a romantic career for a young man, and Claire, whose uncle was a partner in the great firm of Johnson and Company—a most suitable affair. Late in the afternoon they found a cool corner in the bows, and Gregory read poetry. His voice, naturally a beautiful one, with its slight Oxford peculiarities, fascinated Claire. She listened with joy as he passed from Shelley to Keats and wound up with Swinburne. Afterwards the captain took them into his room for tea and they sat talking until it was almost time to change. They descended from the bridge together.

“To-night,” Claire exclaimed happily, “we dance.”

Gregory made no reply. For a single moment a little shiver seemed to pass through him. She turned and smiled reassuringly.

“I am looking forward to it so much,” she murmured. “I’m sure we are both going to love it.”

The doctor swung by as Gregory was changing for dinner. Gregory hailed him.

“Just one moment,” he called out.

The doctor paused and put his head in the stateroom—a large one on the upper promenade deck and easily accessible.

“I want to thank you,” Gregory said earnestly, “for speaking to Miss Endacott.”

“Everything all right again?” the other asked, smiling.

“Quite, thanks to you,” was the well-satisfied reply. “I hope to God I don’t give myself away again! Come in and have a look at my evil genius.”

The doctor came a little farther into the room and examined the Image through his eyeglasses.

“Jove, it’s amazing,” he exclaimed; “amazingly powerful!”

“Diabolically!” Gregory muttered.

The doctor was clearly fascinated by the Image. His fingers passed over it with the soft touch of a connoisseur. He stood back and viewed it from another angle.

“Ballaston,” he said, “there isn’t a sculptor in the West to-day who could produce a piece of work like that. It’s stupendous!”

“I think I shall tell my steward to send it down below into safe keeping, somewhere,” Gregory suggested, turning away and lighting a cigarette. “Don’t you think it would be a good idea?”

The doctor shook his head.

“I think it would be a damned bad idea,” he answered. “Now, look here, young fellow,” he went on, putting his hand on Gregory’s shoulder, “how old are you?”

“Thirty-one.”

“If at your time of life,” the doctor continued, “you once begin to give way to what your brain and real consciousness tell you is an idea, you’ll be a victim to what they call ‘nerves’ all your life. You’ve never been affected before like this, have you?”

“Never,” Gregory declared earnestly. “One doesn’t want to talk about oneself, but I got my medals in France, and a jolly close shave of the big thing. I’ve shot big game and I’ve come out of tight corners once or twice without turning a hair. That’s why I don’t understand this.”

“Good!” the doctor exclaimed. “That confirms me in what I was saying. Square up to it, man! Don’t be all the time flinching away, like you are now. Look at it. Look at it with me, arm in arm. It is just a damned but wonderful representation of wickedness. There is nothing alive about it, except its art. It isn’t going to do you any harm, and it isn’t going to do me any harm. Let it stay where it is.”

Ballaston fastened his tie slowly, considering the advice thoughtfully.

“You mean that, Doctor?” he demanded. “You see, when I’m sane, I have the utmost respect and—I can say it to you—affection for Miss Endacott. She’s only a child, of course, but she’s wonderful. It’s such a horrible thought that I might——”

“Chuck it!” the doctor interrupted tersely. “You won’t. Remember, if you give way now you will give way all your life. Come in and have a last drink with me before you turn in to-night and I bet you’ll be jolly glad you’ve stuck it out.—I must get along now. Got a patient expecting me before dinner.”

He swung off, large, buoyant, diffusing an atmosphere of confidence. Gregory finished his dressing, strolled along the deck, and found Mrs. Hichens and Claire. He took them all into the little lounge where they drank cocktails together. Gregory was suddenly in joyous spirits, and Claire thoroughly responsive. They made plans for the next few days and ended up with a race round the deck, the course being kept clear by a little handful of amused passengers. The captain, coming upon them, breathless, just as the bugle sounded, invited Gregory to his table for dinner, and Gregory, his unsociability altogether dispersed, proved a most attractive guest. Of his own exploits he tried to talk as little as possible, but the Ballastons had been a family well known in sporting and political circles for generations, and there were plenty of anecdotes to be told of English life for Claire’s amusement. A general engaged him in kindly reminiscences of France, and he found an old Etonian, and a junior diplomat on his way home from Japan. They sat at table until long after the others had left, and the music had already commenced when they trooped up the gangway.

“What a wonderful evening!” Claire exclaimed delightedly. “And now we are going to dance!”

The orchestra welcomed them back again with kindly smiles. The lanterns which enclosed the little space of deck were like fairy lights. The music streamed out to them, even its ordinary melodies somehow beautified by their own sense of well-being and the glamour of their surroundings. Claire danced from pure love of graceful movement, from that age-long impulse of rhythm which passes behind history into legend; Gregory, a born athlete and light-footed as an Indian, suffering nothing from his ignorance of the more modern steps. Once or twice they rested, but always impatiently, always with their senses tingling with the joy of rhythmical motion. It was not until the end of the programme that Claire realised suddenly that her companion had been dancing during the last few minutes with unusual stiffness. He was pale and breathing more quickly than usual.

“How selfish of me!” she exclaimed. “Of course you are tired! Let us sit out for a few minutes—somewhere where the music doesn’t haunt us.”

They found two chairs in a retired corner. Gregory seemed to have thrown off his reserves, to have become once more fluent and discoursive. His voice, lowered because of occasional promenaders, had developed an almost passionate timbre. There was a light in his eyes which half puzzled, half thrilled her. His hands sought her fingers underneath the rug which they shared. She suffered him to hold them for a moment before she drew them gently away.

“I have never forgotten,” he told her, “how I saw you first. You came into that crazy old warehouse with its piles of silks and rugs and carpets, and shelves of jade and china, and its quaint odour, the perfume of China and the East. You threaded your way through that group of Chinamen in that spotless white dress of yours, in the hat with the yellow flowers, like something fresh and sweet from a new world—from a world where the sun didn’t bake and shrivel everything to dust, or those dank, humid mists make slime of the ground underneath.”

She laughed softly.

“I think the poetry of this afternoon is lingering in your brain,” she said. “Still, I dare say it was strange to see an American girl with a New York frock amongst all that medley. You must have thought our little house stranger yet. Can you imagine my uncle, surrounded with all those beautiful things, living between bare walls and with oil-cloth upon the floor, and—am I very greedy—with such a terrible cook? Are you shocked at me for my materialism? You know I never pretended to be anything else. I love life as it comes to me day by day, with just the things it brings.”

“And I love life as I find it now,” he whispered. “It seems too wonderful to think that you too are on your way to England, and that we’re going to be almost neighbours.”

“But you are never at home,” she reminded him, with a smile.

“I’ve had nothing to keep me at home,” he rejoined. “In the future it may be different. Already I begin to feel that my love of wandering is finished.”

“Perhaps,” she suggested softly, “we had better dance.”

She rose to her feet and he acquiesced at once. As he leaned towards her, his face as white as marble in the moonlight, he was undoubtedly handsome, yet once again she caught a glimpse of something in his eyes which filled her with a vague uneasiness.

“Yes, we’ll dance,” he assented. “You’re teaching me to understand what dancing means. The last time—when was it?—Alexandria, I believe——”

He stopped abruptly, confused by a turbulent flood of memory. They moved away to the music, in and out of the string of lights, rocking now in an unexpected night breeze. Claire danced still with the joy of her youthful strength and gracious temperament. Once or twice, when Gregory’s arm seemed to be drawing her a little closer, she freed herself slightly. Once she caught a flash of that disturbing glint in his eyes, but she only laughed at her own uneasiness.

“Please don’t look so terribly in earnest,” she begged him. “Dancing is one of the happiest things in the world. We must keep that feeling always with us.”

The music came to an abrupt finish. Claire looked across at the leader of the orchestra in dismay, but it was too late for intervention. Already the first notes of “God Save the King” had been struck.

“Well, it has been lovely,” she declared. “I suppose I must go and look for Mrs. Hichens.”

“Come and have a lemon squash first,” he begged.

The steward served them out on deck. Gregory drank a whisky and soda as though it had been water.

“Let’s sit out for a time,” he suggested. “It is too warm to sleep down below. I’ll fetch some more rugs.”

She shook her head and rose regretfully to her feet.

“It has been delightful,” she admitted, “but after all it is eleven o’clock.”

They strolled along the deck. Suddenly he gripped her by the arm. They were passing his stateroom. Perkins was moving about and the light was lit. He pointed in through the wide-open door, only a few feet away.

“Let me show you my evil genius,” he begged.

She hesitated for a moment. Then, with the steward smilingly standing on one side for her to enter, her hesitation seemed ridiculous. She crossed the threshold as Perkins disappeared with a suave good night. Gregory stood by her side and pointed to the Image. She gave a little gasp. For several moments neither of them spoke. They both gazed at it intently; Claire with wondering horror; Gregory fighting against some sympathetic suggestion in the cynical brutality of the thick mocking lips.

“What a ghastly thing to own,” she cried.

The hand which had been holding her arm was suddenly round her waist.

“Look at it by moonlight,” he whispered in her ear.

The forefinger of his other hand touched the switch. They were almost in darkness. His eyes suddenly seemed to be blazing into hers. She felt the burning of his lips even as they drew near. There was something sweet but vaguely evil in his tone.

“Claire, you are adorable!”

She wrenched herself free—free from arms which had seemed to be closing like a vice round her, away from lips whose very proximity seemed to scorch. She staggered through the door. As she stood there on the deck, the light flashed out again, and Gregory, suddenly, it seemed, almost calm, stood upon the threshold, a courteous but sardonic farewell upon his lips.

“Good night,” he said. “You realise now, perhaps, what it is for a man to live with so evil a thing.”

She swayed as she neared the companionway and steadied herself in her descent by the banisters. When she reached her room she locked the door behind her and threw herself upon the bed.—Gregory had moved back into his stateroom. His fist, hard and clenched, was within a few inches of the leering mouth.

“You damned swine!” he exclaimed, with all his calmness gone, a hoarse fury breaking his voice. “You—you accursed spirit!”

His voice suddenly failed. An overpowering impulse seized him. He took the Image into his arms, rushed through the open door across the deck, and leaned over the rail.

“Find your own hell!” he shouted, and dashed it downwards.