“I suppose so,” admitted Carroll.  “Well, I have matters to look after on board.”

Into Mr. Carroll’s cabin it is nobody’s business to follow him.  A man has a right to some privacy of room and of mind, and if the Southerner’s struggle with himself was severe, at least it was of brief duration.  Within half an hour, he was knocking at Polly Brewster’s door.

“Please go ’way, whoever it is,” answered a pathetically weary voice.

“Miss Polly, it’s Fitzhugh.  I have a note for you.”

“Leave it in the saloon.”

“It’s important that you see it right away.”

“From whom is it?” queried the spent voice.

“From Dr. Pruyn.”

“I—­I don’t want to see it.”

“You must!” insisted her suitor.

“Did he say I must?”

“No.  I say you must.  Forgive me, Miss Polly, but I’m going to wait here till you say you’ll read it.”

“Push it under the door,” said the girl resignedly.

He obeyed.  Polly took the envelope, summoned up all her spirit, and opened it.  It contained one penciled line and the signature:—­

Good-bye.  All my heart goes with you forever.  L. P.

Something fluttered from the envelope to her feet.  She stooped and picked it up.  It was the tiniest and most delicate of orchids, purple, with a glow of gold at its heart.  To her inflamed pride, it seemed the final insult that he should send such a message and such a reminder, without a word of explanation or plea for pardon.  Pardon she never would have granted, but at least he might have had the grace of shame.

“Have you read it?” asked the patient voice from without.

“Yes.  There is no answer.”

“Dr. Pruyn said there wouldn’t be.”

“Then why are you waiting?”

“To see you.”

“Oh, Fitz, I’m too worn out, and I’ve a splitting headache.  Won’t it wait?”

“No.”  The voice was gently inflexible.

“More messages?”

“No; something I must tell you.  Will you come out?”

“I suppose so.”

Her tone was utterly listless and limp.  Utterly listless and limp, she looked, too, as she opened the door and stood waiting.

“Miss Polly, it’s about the woman at Perkins’s—­at Dr. Pruyn’s house.”

Her eyes dilated with anger.

“I won’t hear!  How dare you come to me—­”

“You must!  Don’t make it harder for me than it is.”

She looked up, startled, and noted the haggard lines in his face.

“I’ll hear it if you think I should, Fitz.”

“She is dead.”

“Dead?  His—­his wife?”

“She wasn’t his wife.  She was a helpless leper, whom he was trying to cure with some new serum.  He had to do it secretly because there is a law forbidding any one to harbor a leper.”

“Oh, Fitz!” she cried.  “And she died of it?”

“No.  They killed her.  Last night.”