The second day at sea was disagreeable; the ship rolled considerably, and many officers and men were sea-sick.  Dion was well, but Worthington was prostrated, and did not show on deck.  Towards evening Dion went down to have a look at him, and found him in his bunk, lead-colored, with pinched features, but still cheerful and able to laugh at his own misery.  They had a small “jaw” together about people and things at home, and in the course of it Worthington mentioned Mrs. Clarke, whom he had several times met at De Lorne Gardens.

“You know she’s back in London?” he said.  “The winter’s almost impossible at Constantinople because of the winds from the Black Sea.”

“Yes, I heard she was in London, but I haven’t seen her this winter.”

“I half thought—­only half—­she’d send me a wire to wish me good luck when we embarked,” said Worthington, shifting uneasily in his bunk, and twisting his white lips.  “But she didn’t.  She’s a fascinating woman.  I should have liked to have had a wire from her.”

“By Jove!” exclaimed Dion.

“What is it?”

“I’ve just remembered I got some telegrams when we were going off.  I read one, from my wife, and stuffed the others away.  There was such a lot to do and think of.  I believe they’re here.”

He thrust a hand into one of his pockets and brought out four telegrams, one, Rosamund’s, open, the rest unopened.  Worthington lay staring at him and them, glad perhaps to be turned for a moment from self-contemplation by any incident, however trifling.

“I’ll bet I know whom they’re from,” said Dion.  “One’s from old Guy, one’s from Bruce Evelin, and one’s from——­” He paused, fingering the telegrams.

“Eh?” said Worthington, still screwing his lips about.

“Perhaps from Beattie, my sister-in-law, unless she and Guy have clubbed together.  Well, let’s see.”

He tore open the first telegram.

“May you have good luck and come back safe and soon.—­BEATTIE—­GUY.”

He opened the second.  It was from Bruce Evelin.

“May you be a happy warrior.—­BRUCE EVELIN.”

Dion read it more than once, and his lips quivered for a second.  He shot a glance at Worthington, and said, rather bruskly: 

“Beatrice and Guy Daventry and Bruce Evelin!”

Worthington gave a little faint nod in the direction of the telegram that was still unopened.

“Your mater!”

“No; she wrote to me.  She hates telegrams, says they’re public property.  I wonder who it is.”

He pushed a forefinger under the envelope, tore it and pulled out the telegram.

“The forgotten do not always forget.  May Allah have you and all brave men in His hand.—­CYNTHIA CLARKE.”

Dion felt Worthington’s observant eyes upon him, looked up and met them as the “Ariosto” rolled and creaked in the heavy gray wash of the sea.

“Funny!” he jerked out.