himself, he continually pulled at his black beard, were gigantic,
of a deadly white, with fingers long and prehensile. In his manner
he had all the suave insolence of the Oriental and the suspicious
alertness of one constantly on guard, but also, as Ford at once
noted, of one wholly without fear. He had not been over a moment in
his presence before the reporter felt that to successfully lie to
such a man might be counted as a triumph.

Prothero opened the door into a little office leading off the hall,
and switched on the electric lights. For some short time, without
any effort to conceal his suspicion, he stared at Ford in silence.

"Well?" he said, at last. His tone was a challenge.

Ford had already given his assumed name and profession, and he now
ran glibly into the story he had planned. He opened his card-case
and looked into it doubtfully. "I find I have no card with me," he
said; but I am, as I told you, Lieutenant Grant, of the United
States Navy. I am all right physically, except for my nerves.
They've played me a queer trick. If the facts get out at home, it
might cost me my commission. So I've come over here for treatment."

"Why to ME?" asked Prothero.

"I saw by your advertisement," said the reporter, "that you treated
for nervous mental troubles. Mine is an illusion," he went on. "I
see things, or, rather, always one thing-a battle-ship coming at us
head on. For the last year I've been executive officer of the
KEARSARGE, and the responsibility has been too much for me."