Jorgenson, standing by the taffrail, noted the faint reddish glow in the massive blackness of the further shore.  Jorgenson noted things quickly, cursorily, perfunctorily, as phenomena unrelated to his own apparitional existence of a visiting ghost.  They were but passages in the game of men who were still playing at life.  He knew too well how much that game was worth to be concerned about its course.  He had given up the habit of thinking for so long that the sudden resumption of it irked him exceedingly, especially as he had to think on toward a conclusion.  In that world of eternal oblivion, of which he had tasted before Lingard made him step back into the life of men, all things were settled once for all.  He was irritated by his own perplexity which was like a reminder of that mortality made up of questions and passions from which he had fancied he had freed himself forever.  By a natural association his contemptuous annoyance embraced the existence of Mrs. Travers, too, for how could he think of Tom Lingard, of what was good or bad for King Tom, without thinking also of that woman who had managed to put the ghost of a spark even into his own extinguished eyes?  She was of no account; but Tom’s integrity was.  It was of Tom that he had to think, of what was good or bad for Tom in that absurd and deadly game of his life.  Finally he reached the conclusion that to be given the ring would be good for Tom Lingard.  Just to be given the ring and no more.  The ring and no more.

“It will help him to make up his mind,” muttered Jorgenson in his moustache, as if compelled by an obscure conviction.  It was only then that he stirred slightly and turned away from the loom of the fires on the distant shore.  Mrs. Travers heard his footsteps passing again along the side of the deckhouse—­and this time never raised her head.  That man was sleepless, mad, childish, and inflexible.  He was impossible.  He haunted the decks of that hulk aimlessly. . . .

It was, however, in pursuance of a very distinct aim that Jorgenson had gone forward again to seek Jaffir.

The first remark he had to offer to Jaffir’s consideration was that the only person in the world who had the remotest chance of reaching Belarab’s gate on that night was that tall white woman the Rajah Laut had brought on board, the wife of one of the captive white chiefs.  Surprise made Jaffir exclaim, but he wasn’t prepared to deny that.  It was possible that for many reasons, some quite simple and others very subtle, those sons of the Evil One belonging to Tengga and Daman would refrain from killing a white woman walking alone from the water’s edge to Belarab’s gate.  Yes, it was just possible that she might walk unharmed.

“Especially if she carried a blazing torch,” muttered Jorgenson in his moustache.  He told Jaffir that she was sitting now in the dark, mourning silently in the manner of white women.  She had made a great outcry in the morning to be allowed to join the white men on shore.  He, Jorgenson, had refused her the canoe.  Ever since she had secluded herself in the deckhouse in great distress.