“I’ve no common patience with her,” said the stewardess with acrimony; “the cold-hearted creature!—­flaunting about like that, with a sick husband within a stone’s throw of her.  Suppose he is to blame, Mr. Martin; whatever his faults may have been, it isn’t the time for a wife to remember them.”

To this Mr. Martin responded dubiously, remarking that there were some carryings on upon the part of husbands which it was difficult for a wife not to remember.

The good ship sped on, unhindered by adverse winds or foul weather, and was within twenty-four hours of her destination when John Saltram was at last able to crawl out of the cabin, where he had lain for some eight or nine days crippled and helpless.

The first purpose which he set himself to accomplish was an interview with Marian’s father.  He wanted to grapple his enemy somehow—­to ascertain the nature of the game that was being played against him.  He had kept himself very quiet for this purpose, wishing to take Percival Nowell by surprise; and on this last day but one of the voyage, when he was able for the first time to rise from his berth, no one but the steward and the surgeon knew that he intended so to rise.

He had taken the steward in some measure into his confidence; and that official, after helping him to dress, left him seated in the cabin, while he went to ascertain the whereabouts of Mr. Nowell.  Mr. Martin, the steward, came back after about five minutes.

“He’s in the saloon, sir, reading, quite alone.  You couldn’t have a better opportunity of speaking to him.”

“That’s a good fellow.  Then I’ll go at once.”

“You’d better take my arm, sir; you’re as weak as a baby, and the ship lurches a good deal to-day.”

“I’m not very strong, certainly.  I begin to think I never shall be strong again.  Do you know, Martin, I was once stroke in a university eight.  Not much vigour in my biceps now, eh?”

It was only a few paces from one cabin to the other; but Mr. Saltram could scarcely have gone so far without the steward’s supporting arm.  He was a feeble-looking figure, with a white wan face, as he tottered along the narrow passage between the tables, making his way to that end of the saloon where Percival Nowell lounged luxuriously, with his legs stretched at full length upon the sofa, and a book in his hand.

“Mr. Nowell, I believe,” said the sick man, as the other looked up at him with consummate coolness.  Whatever his feelings might be with regard to his daughter’s husband, he had had ample time to prepare himself for an encounter with him.

“Yes, my name is Nowell.  But I have really not the honour to——­”

“You do not know me,” answered John Saltram.  “No, but it is time you did so.  I am your daughter’s husband, John Holbrook.”

“Indeed.  I have heard that she has been persecuted by the messages of some person calling himself her husband.  You are that person, I presume.”