“Are you really his friend?”

“He brought me here.  You know it.  He has talked a lot to you.”

“He did.  But I ask myself whether you are capable of being anybody’s friend.”

“You ask yourself!” repeated Jorgenson, very quiet and morose.  “If I am not his friend I should like to know who is.”

Mrs. Travers asked, quickly:  “What’s all this about a ring?  What ring?”

“Tom’s property.  He has had it for years.”

“And he gave it to you?  Doesn’t he care for it?”

“Don’t know.  It’s just a thing.”

“But it has a meaning as between you and him.  Is that so?”

“Yes.  It has.  He will know what it means.”

“What does it mean?”

“I am too much his friend not to hold my tongue.”

“What!  To me!”

“And who are you?” was Jorgenson’s unexpected remark.  “He has told you too much already.”

“Perhaps he has,” whispered Mrs. Travers, as if to herself.  “And you want that ring to be taken to him?” she asked, in a louder tone.

“Yes.  At once.  For his good.”

“Are you certain it is for his good?  Why can’t you. . . .”

She checked herself.  That man was hopeless.  He would never tell anything and there was no means of compelling him.  He was invulnerable, unapproachable. . . .  He was dead.

“Just give it to him,” mumbled Jorgenson as though pursuing a mere fixed idea.  “Just slip it quietly into his hand.  He will understand.”

“What is it?  Advice, warning, signal for action?”

“It may be anything,” uttered Jorgenson, morosely, but as it were in a mollified tone.  “It’s meant for his good.”

“Oh, if I only could trust that man!” mused Mrs. Travers, half aloud.

Jorgenson’s slight noise in the throat might have been taken for an expression of sympathy.  But he remained silent.

“Really, this is most extraordinary!” cried Mrs. Travers, suddenly aroused.  “Why did you come to me?  Why should it be my task?  Why should you want me specially to take it to him?”

“I will tell you why,” said Jorgenson’s blank voice.  “It’s because there is no one on board this hulk that can hope to get alive inside that stockade.  This morning you told me yourself that you were ready to die—­for Tom—­or with Tom.  Well, risk it then.  You are the only one that has half a chance to get through—­and Tom, maybe, is waiting.”

“The only one,” repeated Mrs. Travers with an abrupt movement forward and an extended hand before which Jorgenson stepped back a pace.  “Risk it!  Certainly!  Where’s that mysterious ring?”

“I have got it in my pocket,” said Jorgenson, readily; yet nearly half a minute elapsed before Mrs. Travers felt the characteristic shape being pressed into her half-open palm.  “Don’t let anybody see it,” Jorgenson admonished her in a murmur.  “Hide it somewhere about you.  Why not hang it round your neck?”