k and would have had no time at all for social duties,
which, of course, are of very great importance. I may say that,
materially, method has been the foundation of my success in public life.
There were never any empty moments in my day. And now this! . . ." He
looked all round the Cage. . . . "Where's my wife?" he asked.

"I was talking to her only a moment ago," answered d'Alcacer. "I don't
know the time. My watch is on board the yacht; but it isn't late, you
know."

Mr. Travers flung off with unwonted briskness the light cotton sheet
which covered him. He buttoned hastily the tunic which he had unfastened
before lying down, and just as d'Alcacer was expecting him to swing
his feet to the deck impetuously, he lay down again on the pillow and
remained perfectly still.

D'Alcacer waited awhile and then began to pace the Cage. After a couple
of turns he stopped and said, gently:

"I am afraid, Travers, you are not very well."

"I don't know what illness is," answered the voice from the pillow to
the great relief of d'Alcacer who really had not expected an answer.
"Good health is a great asset in public life. Illness may make you miss
a unique opportunity. I was never ill."

All this came out deadened in tone, as if the speaker's face had been
buried in the pillow. D'Alcacer resumed his pacing.

"I think I asked you where my wife was," said the muffled voice.

With great presence of mind d'Alcacer kept on pacing the Cage as if
he had not heard.--"You know, I think she is mad," went on the muffled
voice. "Unless I am."

Again d'Alcacer managed not to interrupt his regular pacing. "Do you
know what I think?" he said, abruptly. "I think, Travers, that you
don't want to talk about her. I think that you don't want to talk about
anything. And to tell you the truth I don't want to, either."

D'Alcacer caught a faint sigh from the pillow and at the same time saw
a small, dim flame appear outside the Cage. And still he kept on his
pacing. Mrs. Travers and Lingard coming out of the deckhouse stopped
just outside the door and Lingard stood the deck-lamp on its roof. They
were too far from d'Alcacer to be heard, but he could make them out:
Mrs. Travers, as straight as an arrow, and the heavy bulk of the man who
faced her with a lowered head. He saw it in profile against the light
and as if deferential in its slight droop. They were looking straight at
each other. Neither of them made the slightest gesture.

"There is tha