Part 49 (2/2)
Place the keys in my pocket.... Thank you.... I had a--pistol.”
”Sir?”
”A pistol. Where is it?”
The steward's roving glance fell finally upon the washbasin. He walked over, picked up the automatic, and, with an indescribable glance at the nurse, laid it across Neeland's up-turned palm.
The young man's fingers fumbled it, closed over the handle; and a ghost of a smile touched his ashen face.
”Do you feel better, sir?”
”I'm tired.... Yes, I feel--better.”
”Can I do anything for you, Mr. Neeland?”
”Stay outside--my door.”
”Do you wish the doctor, sir?”
”No.... No!... Don't call him; do you hear?”
”I won't call him, sir.”
”No, don't call him.”
”No, sir.... Mr. Neeland, there is a--a trained nurse here. You will not want her, will you, sir?”
Again the shadow of a smile crept over Neeland's face.
”Did she come for--her handkerchief?”
There was a silence; the steward looked steadily at the nurse; the nurse's dark eyes were fixed on the man lying there before her.
”You shan't be wanting her any more, shall you, sir?” repeated the steward, not s.h.i.+fting his gaze.
”Yes; I think I shall want her--for a little while.”... Neeland slowly opened his eyes, smiled up at the motionless nurse: ”How are you, Scheherazade?” he said weakly. And, to the steward, with an effort: ”Miss White and I are--old friends.... However--kindly remain outside--my door.... And throw what remains of my dinner--out of--the port.... And be ready--at all times--to look after the--gentleman on crutches.... I'm--fond of him.... Thank you, steward.”
Long after the steward had closed the stateroom door, Ilse Dumont stood beside Neeland's bed without stirring. Once or twice he opened his eyes and looked at her humorously. After a while he said:
”Please be seated, Scheherazade.”
She calmly seated herself on the edge of his couch.
”Horrid soup,” he murmured. ”You should attend a cooking school, my dear.”
She regarded him absently, as though other matters absorbed her.
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