“You are an outrageous scoundrel!” he said between his set teeth, tortured by that most ardent desire to dash his clenched fist into Mr. Nowell’s handsome dissolute-looking face.  “You are a most consummate villain, and you know it!”

“Hard words mean so little,” returned Mr. Nowell coolly, “and go for so little.  That kind of language before witnesses would be actionable; but, upon my word, it would be mere child’s play on my part to notice it, especially to a man in your condition.  You’d better claim your wife from the captain, and see what he will say to you.  I have told him that there’s some semi-lunatic on board, who pretends to be Mrs. Holbrook’s husband; so he’ll be quite prepared to hear your statement.”

John Saltram left the saloon in silence.  It was worse than useless talking to this man, who presumed upon his helpless state, and openly defied him.  His next effort must be to see Marian.

This he found impossible, for the time being at any rate.  The state-room number 7 was an apartment a little bigger than a rabbit-hutch, opening out of a larger cabin, and in that cabin there reposed a ponderous matron who had suffered from sea-sickness throughout the voyage, and who could in no wise permit a masculine intruder to invade the scene of her retirement.

The idea of any blockade of Marian’s door was therefore futile.  He must needs wait as patiently as he might, till she appeared of her own free will.  He could not have to wait very long; something less than a day and a night, the steward had told him, would bring them to the end of the voyage.

Mr. Saltram went on deck, still assisted by the friendly steward, and seated himself in a sheltered corner of the vessel, hoping that the sea-breeze might bring him back some remnant of his lost strength.  The ship’s surgeon had advised him to get a little fresh air as soon as he felt himself able to bear it; so he sat in his obscure nook, very helpless and very feeble, meditating upon what he should do when the final moment came and he had to claim his wife.

He had no idea of making his wrongs known to the captain, unless as a last desperate resource.  He could not bring himself to make Marian the subject of a vulgar squabble.  No, it was to herself alone he would appeal; it was in the natural instinct of her own heart that he would trust.

Very long and weary seemed the remaining hours of that joyless voyage.  Mr. Saltram was fain to go back to his cabin after an hour on deck, there to lie and await the morrow.  He had need to husband his strength for the coming encounter.  The steward told him in the evening that Mrs. Holbrook had not dined in the saloon that day, as usual.  She had kept her cabin closely, and complained of illness.

The morning dawned at last, after what had seemed an endless night to John Saltram, lying awake in his narrow berth—­a bleak blusterous morning, with the cold gray light staring in at the port-hole, like an unfriendly face.  There was no promise in such a daybreak; it was only light, and nothing more.