Gard’s heart stood still.  A sweeping regret invaded him that he had not slain the man when his hands were upon him.  He threw the note aside and turned again to Mrs. Marteen’s letter.

“You see,” he read, “there is nothing for me to do.  A wireless to Dorothy?  She has doubtless had the information since the hour of my departure.  What can I do?  I have thought of you; but how make you, who know nothing of Victor Mahr, understand anything in a message that would not reveal all to everyone who must aid in its transmission?  That at least mustn’t happen.  I am praying every minute that she will go to you—­you, who know and have tolerated me.  I can’t bear for her to know—­I can’t—­it’s killing me!  My heart contracts and stops when I think of it.”

Further down the page, in another ink, evidently written later, was a single note: 

“I’ve left a message with the wireless operator, a sort of desperate hope that it may be of some use—­to Dorothy, telling her to consult you on all matters of importance.  I’ve written one to you, telling you to find her.  The man says he’ll send them out as soon as he gets into touch with anyone.”

A still later entry: 

“Two P.M.—­I’m in my cabin all the time.  I think that I shall go mad.  That sounds conventional, doesn’t it—­reminiscent of melodrama!  I assure you it’s worse than real.  I feel as if for years and years I’ve been asleep, and now’ve wakened up into a nightmare.  I can write to you; that’s the one thing that gives me relief.  Your kindness seems a shield behind which I can crawl.  I can’t sleep; I can only—­not think—­no, it isn’t thinking I do—­it’s realizing—­and everything is terrible.  The sunlight makes ripples on my cabin ceiling; they weave and part and wrinkle.  I try to fix my attention on them, and hypnotize myself into lethargy.  Sometimes I almost succeed, and then I begin realizing again.  And in the night I stare at the electric light till my eyes ache, and try to numb my thoughts.  Must my little girl know what I am?  Can’t that be averted?  I know it can’t—­I know, and yet I pray and pray—­I—­pray!"

Another sheet, evidently torn from a pad:  “The wireless is out of order; they couldn’t send my messages.  You don’t know the despair that has taken hold of me.  My mind feels white—­that’s the only way I can describe it—­cold and white—­frozen, a blank.  My body is that way, too.  I hold my hands to the light, and it doesn’t seem as if there was even the faintest red.  They are the hands of a dead person—­I wish they were!  But I must know—­must know.  We are due in Havana to-morrow.  I shall take the first boat out—­to anywhere, where I can get a train, that’s the quickest.  Oh, you, who have so often told me I must stop and think and realize things!  Did you know what it was you wanted me to do?  Have you any idea what torture is? You couldn’t!  I don’t believe even Mahr would have done this