She glanced desperately around the cabin and at the bed unrolled on
the other bunk. "Night is coming on. You can't stop here. You
can't! I tell you, you simply can't!"

"Of course I can. I might remind you that I found this cabin first
and that you are my guests."

Again her eyes travelled around the room, and the terror in them
leaped up at sight of the other bunk.

"Then we'll have to go," she announced decisively.

"Impossible. You have a dry, hacking cough - the sort Mr. - er -
Haythorne so aptly described. You've already slightly chilled your
lungs. Besides, he is a physician and knows. He would never
permit it."

"Then what are you going to do?" she demanded again, with a tense,
quiet utterance that boded an outbreak.

Messner regarded her in a way that was almost paternal, what of the
profundity of pity and patience with which he contrived to suffuse
it.

"My dear Theresa, as I told you before, I don't know. I really
haven't thought about it."

"Oh! You drive me mad!" She sprang to her feet, wringing her
hands in impotent wrath. "You never used to be this way."