Marston was speaking, professionally cool now.  “A knife stab, close to the right lung, if not in it.  And an ugly bruise over his eye.  He is not dead.  Let him lie as he is until I return with instruments and dressing.”

“The door was locked on the inside,” said Alan, as soon as the doctor was gone.  “And the window is closed.  It looks like—­suicide.  It is possible—­there was an understanding between them—­and Rossland chose this way instead of the sea?”

Captain Rifle was on his knees.  He looked under the berth, peered into the corners, and pulled back the blanket and sheet.  “There is no knife,” he said stonily.  And in a moment he added:  “There are red stains on the window.  It was not attempted suicide.  It was—­”

“Murder.”

“Yes, if Rossland dies.  It was done through the open window.  Someone called Rossland to the window, struck him, and then closed the window.  Or it is possible, if he were sitting or standing here, that a long-armed man might have reached him.  It was a man, Alan.  We’ve got to believe that.  It was a man.”

“Of course, a man,” Alan nodded.

They could hear Marston returning, and he was not alone.  Captain Rifle made a gesture toward the door.  “Better go,” he advised.  “This is a ship’s matter, and you won’t want to be unnecessarily mixed up in it.  Come to my cabin in half an hour.  I shall want to see you.”

The second officer and the purser were with Doctor Marston when Alan passed them, and he heard the door of Rossland’s room close behind him.  The ship was trembling under his feet again.  They were moving away.  He went to Mary Standish’s cabin and deliberately gathered her belongings and put them in the small hand-bag with which she had come aboard.  Without any effort at concealment he carried the bag to his room and packed his own dunnage.  After that he hunted up Stampede Smith and explained to him that an unexpected change in his plans compelled them to stop at Cordova.  He was five minutes late in his appointment with the captain.

Captain Rifle was seated at his desk when Alan entered his cabin.  He nodded toward a chair.

“We’ll reach Cordova inside of an hour,” he said.  “Doctor Marston says Rossland will live, but of course we can not hold the Nome in port until he is able to talk.  He was struck through the window.  I will make oath to that.  Have you anything—­in mind?”

“Only one thing,” replied Alan, “a determination to go ashore as soon as I can.  If it is possible, I shall recover her body and care for it.  As for Rossland, it is not a matter of importance to me whether he lives or dies.  Mary Standish had nothing to do with the assault upon him.  It was merely coincident with her own act and nothing more.  Will you tell me our location when she leaped into the sea.”

He was fighting to retain his calmness, his resolution not to let Captain Rifle see clearly what the tragedy of her death had meant to him.