Not until he had reentered his own cabin did Alan realize he still held the crushed shoe in his hand.  He placed it on his bed and dressed.  It took him only a few minutes.  Then he went aft and found the captain.  Half an hour later the first boat returned.  Five minutes after that, a second came in.  And then a third.  Alan stood back, alone, while the passengers crowded the rail.  He knew what to expect.  And the murmur of it came to him—­failure!  It was like a sob rising softly out of the throats of many people.  He drew away.  He did not want to meet their eyes, or talk with them, or hear the things they would be saying.  And as he went, a moan came to his lips, a strangled cry filled with an agony which told him he was breaking down.  He dreaded that.  It was the first law of his kind to stand up under blows, and he fought against the desire to reach out his arms to the sea and entreat Mary Standish to rise up out of it and forgive him.

He drove himself on like a mechanical thing.  His white face was a mask through which burned no sign of his grief, and in his eyes was a deadly coldness.  Heartless, the woman who had screamed might have said.  And she would have been right.  His heart was gone.

Two people were at Rossland’s door when he came up.  One was Captain Rifle, the other Marston, the ship’s doctor.  The captain was knocking when Alan joined them.  He tried the door.  It was locked.

“I can’t rouse him,” he said.  “And I did not see him among the passengers.”

“Nor did I,” said Alan.

Captain Rifle fumbled with his master key.

“I think the circumstances permit,” he explained.  In a moment he looked up, puzzled.  “The door is locked on the inside, and the key is in the lock.”

He pounded with his fist on the panel.  He continued to pound until his knuckles were red.  There was still no response.

“Odd,” he muttered.

“Very odd,” agreed Alan.

His shoulder was against the door.  He drew back and with a single crash sent it in.  A pale light filtered into the room from a corridor lamp, and the men stared.  Rossland was in bed.  They could see his face dimly, upturned, as if staring at the ceiling.  But even now he made no movement and spoke no word.  Marston entered and turned on the light.

After that, for ten seconds, no man moved.  Then Alan heard Captain Rifle close the door behind them, and from Marston’s lips came a startled whisper: 

“Good God!”

Rossland was not covered.  He was undressed and flat on his back.  His arms were stretched out, his head thrown back, his mouth agape.  And the white sheet under him was red with blood.  It had trickled over the edges and to the floor.  His eyes were loosely closed.  After the first shock Doctor Marston reacted swiftly.  He bent over Rossland, and in that moment, when his back was toward them, Captain Rifle’s eyes met Alan’s.  The same thought—­and in another instant disbelief—­flashed from one to the other.