Four doors opened in the bulkhead, there.  Two communicated with storerooms, one opened into the passage that led to the aft observation pit, the fourth gave access to the sick-bay.  This door the Master slid back.  Followed by the major he passed through.

A small but fully equipped hospital met their eyes.  Cots, operating-table, instrument-cases, sterilizers, everything was complete.  Immaculate cleanliness reigned.  On two of the cots, men were lying.

Beyond, Captain Alden—­still fully dressed—­was sitting on a white metal chair.  The captain’s face was still concealed by the celluloid mask, but a profound pallor was visible on the lower portion of his right cheek and along his left jaw.  The set of that jaw showed an invincible obstinacy that bespoke rebellion.

Dr. Lombardo, a dark-skinned Florentine, who had been talking with Captain Alden, turned at the Master’s entrance into the sick-bay.  Already Lombardo had put on a white linen jacket.  Though he had not yet had time to change his trousers, he nevertheless presented a semi-professional air as he advanced to meet the newcomers.

“I’m glad you’re here, sir,” said he to the Master.  “There’s trouble enough, already.”

“Stowaway?” The Master advanced to the nearer cot.

“Yes, sir.  Perhaps not voluntarily so.  You know how he was found.”

“Such oversight is inexcusable!” The Master leaned down and shook the man by the shoulder.  “Come, now!” he demanded.  “What’s your name?” Curiously he looked at the stranger, a man of great strength, with long arms and powerful, prehensile hands that reminded one of an ape’s.

“It’s no use questioning him, sir,” put in Lombardo, while the major peered curiously at Alden and at the other cot where a man was lying with a froth of bright, arterial blood on his lips.  Though this man was suffering torment, no groan escaped him.  A kind of gray shadow had settled about eyes and mouth—­the shadow of the death angel’s wings.

“It’s no use, sir,” repeated the doctor.  “He hasn’t recovered consciousness enough, yet, to be questioned.  When he does, I’ll report.”

“Do so!” returned the Master, curtly.  “I hardly think we need use much ceremony in disposing of him.”  He turned to the other cot.  “Well, sir, how about this man?”

“I’m—­all right, sir,” weakly coughed the wounded New Zealander.  He tried to bring a hand to his forehead, but could hardly lift it from the sheet.  The doctor, with compressed lips, slightly shook a negativing head, as the Master raised interrogative brows.

“Serious,” Lombardo whispered.  “Shot through the right lung.  Bullet still there.  Severe internal hemorrhage.  I may be able to operate, with Daimamoto assisting, but only in case the patient rallies.  We really need a nurse, on this expedition.  Medically speaking, we’re short-handed.  However, I’ll do my best, sir.”

“I know you will,” answered the Master.  He stood a moment gazing down at the New Zealander, with stern face and tight mouth.  This man on the cot had already given much for the expedition, and might give all.  Not without blood and suffering—­death, perhaps—­was the Master’s dream to come to its fruition.  After a moment, the Master turned away.  He faced Captain Alden.