"Yes," she admitted, "and he has been warning me against you."

"I suppose," Jocelyn ruminated, "the man has a certain amount of
puppy-dog intelligence."

"I do not understand Mr. Crawshay at all," she confessed. "My
acquaintance with him before we met on this steamer was of the
slightest, but his manner of coming certainly led one to believe that
he was a man of courage and determination. Since then he has crawled
about in an overcoat and rubber shoes, and groaned about his ailments
until one feels inclined to laugh at him. Last night he was different
again. He was entirely serious, and he spoke to me about you."

"Do you need to be warned against me?" he asked grimly. "Have I ever
sailed under false colours?"

"Don't," she begged, looking at him with a little quiver of the lips
and a wonderfully soft light in her eyes. "You have never deceived me
in any way except, if at all, as regards this voyage. I made up my
mind this evening that I would ask you, if you cared to tell me, to
take me into your confidence about this man who is dying down below,
and his strange journey. I need scarcely add that I should respect
that confidence."

"I am sorry," he answered. "You ask an impossibility."

"Then there is some sort of conspiracy going on?" she persisted. "Let
me ask you a straightforward question. Is it not true that you have
made me an unknowing participator in an illegal act?"