"But God save us!" murmured the young man. "Can't a man die these days
without a yacht-full of anxious persons steaming up and clamping a light
against his eyeball?"

"But can't we do something for you?" asked Varney. "That's what we are
here for."

The young man lay still and thought a moment, which he appeared to do
with some difficulty.

"To be frank," his voice came out of the dark, rather clearer now, "you
can. Give me a match, will you?"

Varney laughed; he produced and handed over a little box of them. Lying
flat on his back in the boat, the young man fished a cigarette out of
his pocket, hurriedly, and stuck it between his lips. The next minute
the spurt of a match cut the air. The two in the ship's boat caught a
brief, flashing glimpse of him--thin white hands raised to thin white
face.

"Something of a _poseur_, aren't you?" suggested Peter pleasantly.
"What's your role to-night?"

There followed a fractional pause.

"That of a vagrant student of manners and customs," answered the
colorless voice. "Therefore, to imitate your frankness, you interest me
greatly."