“I regard the episode,” continued Smith, “as a posthumous attempt of the doctor’s; a legacy of hate which may prove more disastrous than any attempt made upon us by Fu-Manchu in life.  Some fiendish member of the murder group is on board the ship.  We must, as always, meet guile with guile.  There must be no appeal to the captain, no public examination of passengers and crew.  One attempt has failed; I do not doubt that others will be made.  At present, you will enact the role of physician-in-attendance upon Karamaneh, and will put it about for whom it may interest that a slight return of her nervous trouble is causing her to pass uneasy nights.  I can safely leave this part of the case to you, I think?”

I nodded rapidly.

“I haven’t troubled to make inquiries,” added Smith, “but I think it probable that the regulation respecting closed ports will come into operation immediately we have passed the Straits, or at any rate immediately there is any likelihood of bad weather.”

“You mean—­”

“I mean that no alteration should be made in our habits.  A second attempt along similar lines is to be apprehended—­to-night.  After that we may begin to look out for a new danger.”

“I pray we may avoid it,” I said fervently.

As I entered the saloon for breakfast in the morning, I was subjected to solicitous inquiries from Mrs. Prior, the gossip of the ship.  Her room adjoined Karamaneh’s and she had been one of the passengers aroused by the girl’s cries in the night.  Strictly adhering to my role, I explained that my patient was threatened with a second nervous breakdown, and was subject to vivid and disturbing dreams.  One or two other inquiries I met in the same way, ere escaping to the corner table reserved to us.

That iron-bound code of conduct which rules the Anglo-Indian, in the first days of the voyage had threatened to ostracize Karamaneh and Aziz, by reason of the Eastern blood to which their brilliant but peculiar type of beauty bore witness.  Smith’s attitude, however—­and, in a Burmese commissioner, it constituted something of a law—­had done much to break down the barriers; the extraordinary beauty of the girl had done the rest.  So that now, far from finding themselves shunned, the society of Karamaneh and her romantic-looking brother was universally courted.  The last inquiry that morning, respecting my interesting patient, came from the bishop of Damascus, a benevolent old gentleman whose ancestry was not wholly innocent of Oriental strains, and who sat at a table immediately behind me.  As I settled down to my porridge, he turned his chair slightly and bent to my ear.

“Mrs. Prior tells me that your charming friend was disturbed last night,” he whispered.  “She seems rather pale this morning; I sincerely trust that she is suffering no ill-effect.”

I swung around, with a smile.  Owing to my carelessness, there was a slight collision, and the poor bishop, who had been invalided to England after typhoid, in order to undergo special treatment, suppressed an exclamation of pain, although his fine dark eyes gleamed kindly upon me through the pebbles of his gold-rimmed pince-nez.