“Still, I should be glad to have you gentlemen present, if only for a moment,” insisted Darrow, presently.

“Perhaps it would be as well—­on account of the patient,” said the surgeon significantly.

“Very well,” assented the captain.

The three went to Slade’s cabin.  He was lying propped up in his bunk.  Trendon entered first, followed by the captain, then Darrow.

“Here’s your prize, Slade,” said the surgeon.

Darrow halted, just inside the door.  With an eager light in his face Slade leaned forward and stretched out his hand.

“I couldn’t believe it until I saw you, old man,” he cried.

Darrow’s eyebrows went up.  Before Slade had time to note that there was no response to his outstretched hand, the surgeon had jumped in and pushed him roughly back upon his pillow.

“What did you promise?” he growled.  “You were to lie still, weren’t you?  And you’ll do it, or out we go.”

“How are you, Eagen?” drawled Darrow.

“Not Eagen.  I’m done with that.  They’ve told you, haven’t they?”

Darrow nodded.  “Are you the only survivor?” he inquired.

“Except yourself.”

“The Nigger?  Pulz?  Thrackles?  The captain?  All drowned?”

“Not the captain.  They murdered him.”

“Ah,” said Darrow softly.  “And you—­I beg your pardon—­your—­er—­friends disposed of the doctor in the same way?”

“Handy Solomon,” replied Slade with shaking lips.  “Hell’s got that fiend, if there’s a hell for human fiends.  They threw the doctor’s body in the surf.”

“You didn’t notice whether there were any papers?”

“If there were they must have been destroyed with the body when the lava poured down the valley into the sea.”

“The lava:  of course,” assented Darrow, with elaborate nonchalance.  “Well, he was a kind old boy.  A cheerful, simple, wise old child.”

“I would have given my right hand to save him,” cried Slade.  “It was so sudden—­so damnable—­”

“Better to have saved him than me,” said Darrow.  He spoke with the first touch of feeling that he exhibited.  “I have to thank you for my life, Eagen—­I beg your pardon:  Slade.  It’s hard to remember.”

Dr. Trendon arose, and Captain Parkinson with him.

“Give you two hours, Mr. Darrow,” said the surgeon.  “No more.  If he seems exhausted, give him one of these powders.  I’ll look in in an hour.”

At the end of an hour he returned.  Slade was lying back on his pillow.  Darrow was talking, eagerly, confidentially.  In another hour he came out.

“The whole thing is clear,” he said to Captain Parkinson.  “I am ready to report to you.”

“This evening,” said the captain.  “The mess will want to hear.”

“Yes, they will want to hear,” assented Darrow.  “You’ve had Slade’s story.  I’ll take it up where he left off, and he’ll check me.  Mine’s as incredible as—­as Slade’s was.  And it’s as true.”