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Kenneth.
    “But so romantic,” said Rosey.
    Terry seemed to be interested in the subject, much to Lars’ surprise.
    The conversation took a turn upon the entrance of Paco. The Spaniard, with deep courtesy, entered from another passageway carrying a tray of drinks. Lars looked sharply at Paco. There was something wrong with his face. And then Lars knew. Paco was not smiling.
    “Oh, Paco,” said Alice, “have you ever met an earl or a king or something?”
    Paco set the tray down. He did not answer but he smiled as though he knew a great deal he was not saying. Then his smile faded away and he went on serving.
    “Why, Paco, what’s the matter?” said Rosey. “You look so pale!”
    Paco did look pale. His cheeks were sunken and there were weary lines about his eyes.
    “Aren’t you feeling well, Paco?” said Terry.
    “A little out of sorts,” said Paco mildly with much apology of gesture. “Sometimes a jungle fever I contracted in Indochina returns. It is said that one gets it and never wholly recovers from it. After five attacks . . .” He stopped and went on serving the drinks.
    “After five attacks,” urged Ralph, sitting up with interest on the words, “jungle fever.”
    “They say one dies,” said Paco. “It’s just a silly native superstition of course.”
    “How many does this make?” gasped Rosey, very interested.
    Paco did not answer her immediately. He finished serving and then picked up his tray and came toward the door near Lars. He paused with his hand on the knob and gave them all a very tired smile.
    “Five,” said Paco, exiting.
    They would have stopped him if his dramatic exit had been less well done. But it was too perfect a thing to spoil. They began to buzz about it.
    Paco bumped into Lars and was startled. He saw who it was and gave Lars his customary triumphant grin. “Taking in the scenery, eh?”
    “Let’s get a look at you,” said Lars abruptly. He turned Paco’s face around to the light and touched a finger to Paco’s cheek. Lars snorted. “Cigarette ashes and a lead pencil, huh?”
    “Well?” said Paco. “Effective, if nothing else.”
    “That’s a cheap way to gain sympathy.”
    “When I want your opinions,” grinned Paco insolently, “I’ll ask for them.”
    He went on down the deck to his stateroom.
    Lars looked into the window again and heard Aunt Agatha saying, “Poor boy. He did look tired. Perhaps if I gave him some sulphur and molasses . . .”
    Lars went to his own room. He was puzzled as he took off his cap and jacket. He threw them on the bunk and then sat down in a wicker chair beside the open door and stayed there watching the horizon tip up and down. It was a faint horizon, the sea ceasing only where the brilliant stars began.
    He sat there pondering for hours, knowing well enough that he should be getting some sleep. But he could not sleep. Death was hovering over this yacht. He could sense the beat of its black wings.
    At four-thirty a sailor came to his door and started to knock. Then he saw Lars sitting just inside.
    “Sir, Miss Norton says for you to come quick.”
    Lars reached for his jacket and cap. “What’s the matter?”
    “It’s Paco, sir. They’re in a terrible stew below.”
    “What’s wrong with Paco?”
    “Looks like he’s going to weigh anchor for the next world, Captain.”
    Lars snorted. He went down the ladder to the lower deck and saw that the salon was brilliantly illuminated. Terry, in a silken negligee, was waiting for him at the door.
    “Come quickly,” said Terry. “It’s Paco.”
    She led him down the deck to Paco’s room. All the others were there, looking sad and standing nervously around. Paco was lying listlessly in his bunk, staring straight up at an I-beam above as though unaware of anything that was happening.
    “Do something,” pleaded Terry.
    Lars had to carry through. He stepped to Paco’s side and took the Spaniard’s wrist, feeling the pulse. He received a shock. That pulse was very slow,