“And then again,” he said, “the chances are all against our finding her, if she wishes to remain concealed, or even absent.  Linn talks of Malta, of Australia, of San Francisco, and so on; but I don’t believe he has the slightest idea where she is.  No, I’m afraid it’s no use thinking of it; the crisis of the fever will be here before any such thing could be tried.”

Then he said, presently,

“I had a visit from Miss Burgoyne yesterday afternoon.”

“I suppose she was terribly distressed,” Francie said, naturally enough.

“Oh, no.  On the contrary, she was remarkably cool and composed.  I almost admired her self-possession.  She does not think Lionel’s throat will suffer; and no doubt she trusts to his sound constitution to pull him through the fever; so perhaps there is not much reason that she should betray any anxiety.  Oh, yes, she was very brave about it—­and—­and business-like.  At the same time I confess to a sort of prejudice in favor of feminine women.  I think a little touch of femininity might improve Miss Burgoyne, for example.  However, she knows she is in possession; and if Linn pulls through all right, there she is, waiting for him.”

It seemed to Francie that her companion had managed to form a pretty strong dislike towards that young lady, considering how little he could possibly know of her.

“I suppose one ought not to contemplate such things,” he continued, “but if Linn were to come out of the fever with the loss of his voice, I suspect he would have little trouble in freeing himself from that engagement with Miss Burgoyne.”

“But surely a woman could not be so base as to keep a man to an unwilling engagement!” Francie protested, as she had protested before.

“I don’t know about that,” her companion said.  “As I told you, Miss Burgoyne is a business-like person.  Linn, with his handsome figure and his fine voice, with his popularity and social position, is a very desirable match for her; but Linn become a nobody—­his voice gone—­his social success along with it—­would be something entirely different.  At the same time, Dr. Whitsen agrees with her in thinking there won’t be any permanent injury; it is the fever that is the serious thing.”

They went back to the house; the reports were no better.  And all that night Lionel’s fevered imaginings did not cease.  He was haunted now by visions of cruelties and sufferings being inflicted on some one he knew in a far-distant land; he pleaded with the torturers; he called for help; sometimes he said she was dead and released, and there was no more need for him to go away in a ship to seek for her.  The wearied brain could get no rest at all.  Daylight came, and still he lay there, moaning and murmuring to himself.  But help was at hand.

Between ten and eleven, Dr. Ballardyce, who had paid his usual morning visit, was going away, and Maurice, as his custom was, went down-stairs with him to hear the last word.  He said good-bye to the doctor and opened the door for him; and just as he did so he found before him a young woman who was about to ring the bell.  She glanced up with frightened eyes; he was no less startled; and then, with a hurried “I beg your pardon,” she turned to go away.  But Maurice was by her side in a moment—­bareheaded as he was.