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The new-comer leapt away in the wake of the mummy-man who had vanished around the corner by the smokeroom. Over his shoulder he cried back at me: "The Bishop's stateroom! See that no one enters!" I clutched at my head which seemed to be fiery hot; I realized, in my own person, the sensations of one who knows himself mad. For the man who pursued the mummy was Nayland Smith!
Later, again, while the auction pool was being sold, he found himself ensconced on a lounge in a far corner of the smokeroom beside his fellow craftsman, still listening chiefly, and absorbing fact and anecdote pertaining to a successful lumberman's life.
It was a smile of accepting the inevitable. He went with her to the forward deck where her staterooms were situated, and left her there in silence. Von Ritz, standing apart near the threshold of the smokeroom, heard his name paged almost before the speaker had entered the door, and turned to take from the hand of the bearer a Marconigram just relayed from shore.
She was the girl who had run away from home to live with a dubious step-mother; and she was the sister of that awful Mrs. Greatorex, who well, everybody knew what Mrs. Greatorex was. Gwenda Cartaret, like her younger sister, had been talked about. Not so much in the big houses of the Dale. The queer facts had been tossed up and down a smokeroom for one season and then dropped.
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