As I said before, I think he didn't recognise me; and he's lying now in
116 Intermediate, with a look on him that I've seen in the face of a man
condemned to death by the devils of cholera or equatorial fever. And
that's the story, Marmion, which I brought you to hear--told, as you
notice, in fine classical style."

"And why do you tell ME this, Hungerford--a secret you've kept all these
years? Knowledge of that man's crime wasn't necessary before giving him
belladonna or a hot bath."

Hungerford kept back the whole truth for reasons of his own. He said:
"Chiefly because I want you to take a decent interest in the chap. He
looks as if he might go off on the long voyage any tick o' the clock.
You are doctor, parson, and everything else of the kind on board. I like
the poor devil, but anyhow I'm not in a position to be going around with
ginger-tea in a spoon, or Ecclesiastes under my arm,--very good things.
Your profession has more or less to do with the mind as well as the body,
and you may take my word for it that Boyd Madras's mind is as sick as his
torso. By the way, he calls himself 'Charles Boyd,' so I suppose we
needn't recall to him his former experiences by adding the 'Madras.'"

Hungerford squeezed my arm again violently, and added: "Look here,
Marmion, we understand each other in this, don't we? To do what we can
for the fellow, and be mum."

Some of this looks rough and blunt, but as it was spoken there was that
in it which softened it to my ear. I knew he had told all he thought I
ought to know, and that he wished me to question him no more, nor to
refer to Mrs. Falchion, whose relationship to Boyd Madras--or Charles
Boyd--both of us suspected.