hastily away to the body over which Lanyard had stumbled. He heard an
imploring whisper--"Please!"--and looked up to see her on her knees.

"Who, then, is this?" he demanded, joining her.

"Lionel--Lieutenant Thackeray. Please--O please!--tell me he is not dead."

Her voice broke; he saw her slender body convulsed with racking emotions.
Kneeling, Lanyard made a hasty and superficial examination, necessarily no
more under the conditions.

"His heart beats," he announced--"he breathes. I do not think him seriously
injured." He made as if to get up. "I will get a light--a flash-lamp from
my stateroom--or, better still, the ship's surgeon--"

Her hand fell upon his arm. "Please, no! Not that--not now. Later, if
necessary; but now--surely, you can help me carry him to his stateroom."

"You know the number?"

"It's close by--30."

"Find it, and light up. No--leave this to me; I can carry him without
assistance."

The girl rose and disappeared. Lanyard passed his arms beneath the
Englishman's body, gathered him into them, and struggled to his feet: no
inconsiderable task.

Light gushed from an open doorway, the third aft from the landing.