How still it suddenly seemed!  His glance swept toward the door through which the young girl had vanished.  Why had he heard no sound from her?  Why did she not appear now?  She must have caught something of what had been going on.  He went swiftly to the door.

“Miss Dalrymple!”

No answer.  He rapped again—­louder—­then tried the door.  It resisted; he shook it.

“Betty!” Yes; he called her that in the alarm and excitement of the moment.  “It’s—­it’s all right.  Open the door.”

Again that hush—­nothing more.  Mr. Heatherbloom pulled rather wildly at the lock of hair over his brow; then a sudden frenzy seemed to seize him.  He launched himself forward and struck fairly with his shoulder—­once—­twice.  The door, at length, yielded with a crash.  He rushed in—­fell to his knees.

“Betty!  Oh, Betty!” For the moment he stared helplessly at the motionless form on the floor, then, lifting the girl in his arms, he laid her on a couch.  One little white hand swung limp; he seized it with grimy fingers.  It was oddly cold, and a shiver went over him.  He felt for her pulse—­her heart—­at first caught no answering throb, for his own heart was beating so wildly.  The world seemed to swim—­then he straightened.  The filmy dress, not so white now in spots, had fluttered beneath her throat.  He gazed rapturously.

“It’ll be all right,” he said again.  “Darling!”

He could say it now, when she couldn’t hear.  “Darling!  Darling!” he repeated.  It constituted his vocabulary of terms of endearment.  He felt the need of no other.  She lay like a lily.  He saw nothing anomalous in certain stains of soot, even on the wonderful face where his had unconsciously touched it when he had raised her and strained her to him one mad instant in his arms.  In fact, he did not see those stains; his eyes were closed to such details—­and the crimson marks, too, on her gown!  His knuckles were bleeding; he was unaware of it.  He was not, outwardly, a very presentable adorer but he became suddenly a most daring one.  His grimy hand touched the shining hair, half-unbound; he raised one of the marvelous tresses—­his hungry lips swept it lightly—­or did he but breathe a divine fragrance?  By some inner process his spirit seemed to have come that instant very near to hers.  He forgot where he was; time and space were annihilated.

He was brought abruptly back to the living present by a sudden knock at the door without, which he had locked after entering that way from the deck.  Mr. Heatherbloom listened; the person, whoever he was, on receiving no response, soon went away.  Had they discovered what had happened to the foreman of the stokers whom Heatherbloom had struck down with a heavy iron belaying-pin?  The man had attacked him with murderous intent.  In defending himself, Heatherbloom believed he had killed the fellow.  The chance blow he had delivered with the formidable weapon had been one of desperation and despair.