"Steward!" Ogle heard her wailing. "You man, there! You! Listen! If this ship's going to the bottom oughtn't I to get dressed?"
The steward, an Italian like the rest of the ship's people, spoke no English.
"Madame?"
"Oughtn't I to get dressed?"
The voice of the daughter was heard then, calling angrily: "If he's a respectable man, he'd say you certainly ought! Don't go out there like that. Come back in here and shut that door."
The general uproar, increasing, covered and merged all other sounds, making them indistinguishable; but evidently the mother obeyed, and for the rest of that horrifying day Ogle heard no more of his hated neighbours. The dark came early, and an hour later someone fell against his outer door, opened it, and fumbled along the wall.
"Who's there?" Ogle inquired, though he felt no interest in his own question and cared little what the reply might be.
"Ecco," a mournful voice responded, and the electric light brightened the room intolerably.
"Murder," Ogle said feebly, and, opening pained eyes, beheld his sick steward leaning upon the foot
