His white face was a mask
through which burned no sign of his grief, and in his eyes was a deadly
coldness. Heartless, the woman who had screamed might have said. And she
would have been right. His heart was gone.
Two people were at Rossland's door when he came up. One was Captain
Rifle, the other Marston, the ship's doctor. The captain was knocking
when Alan joined them. He tried the door. It was locked.
"I can't rouse him," he said. "And I did not see him among the
passengers."
"Nor did I," said Alan.
Captain Rifle fumbled with his master key.
"I think the circumstances permit," he explained. In a moment he looked
up, puzzled. "The door is locked on the inside, and the key is in
the lock."
He pounded with his fist on the panel. He continued to pound until his
knuckles were red. There was still no response.
"Odd," he muttered.
"Very odd," agreed Alan.
His shoulder was against the door. He drew back and with a single crash
sent it in. A pale light filtered into the room from a corridor lamp,
and the men stared. Rossland was in bed. They could see his face dimly,
upturned, as if staring at the ceiling. But even now he made no movement
and spoke no word. Marston entered and turned on the light.
After that, for ten seconds, no man moved. Then Alan heard Captain Rifle
close the door behind them, and from Marston's lips came a
startled whisper:
"Good God!"
Rossland was not covered.
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