This scene is not a very pleasant one, but there are features about it which are worth being noticed, and John stands to gaze before seeking his room.

He has heard from the captain that the boat is perfectly safe, unless the storm should grow much heavier, and with this assurance intends to seek his berth and sleep, if such a thing be possible.

He moves toward his state-room.  Just then a billow strikes the steamer almost amidships, and she rolls.  This, not being expected, causes John to slide across the cabin floor, to the accompaniment of a chorus of cries from the frightened people, who are huddled in a corner by this new move on the part of the vessel.

He brings up alongside a state-room door, which is in the act of being opened, even as he bangs up against it.

Consequently John has the greatest difficulty in maintaining his balance, and in order to keep from sliding through the door grasps the sides.

Some one has opened it.  A face is exposed close to his own, a face that, although not terror-stricken, bears the evidence of sudden alarm, as though the new pitch of the vessel and renewed shrieks from within have aroused fear—­a face that John Craig recognizes with amazement.

“Tell me, are we sinking?” she exclaims.

Then she looks again.

“Ah!  Doctor Chicago!”

“You here, Pauline Potter?”

The presence of the actress on board the steamer gives him a sudden thrill.

It is no mere accident that brings her, but a part of a deep-laid plan, which perhaps not only concerns him, but one in whom he has taken the deepest interest—­Lady Ruth.

That is why he cries out, and his words have more than an ordinary amount of astonishment in them.

“Yes, I am leaving Malta.  I have no reason to remain there longer.  But tell me the worst, John Craig; are we doomed to go down?”

The vessel does not toss so wildly now, and the wails of the alarmed passengers grow less in volume.

“I hope not.  The captain assured me there was no danger whatever, and told me to get some sleep, if I could.  I am on my way to my berth now.  Be of good cheer, the morning will see us safe enough, I believe.”

Then he leaves her, and the state-room door closes.

This encounter makes John think of the other ladies.  Are Aunt Gwen and Lady Ruth among those whose clamor arises from the cabin with each lurch of the ship?

As the thought flashes upon his mind, some one clutches his arm, and, turning, he beholds the little professor.  There is a wild look in Philander’s eyes, and his teeth rattle like castanets.  Really the situation is terrible enough to appall any one.

“When do we go down, John?” he asks.

“Good Heaven!  I trust not at all,” and he cheers the other with what the captain has told him.

“I wish you could tell the ladies that.”