"The day after to-morrow," amended Jan. "Tomorrow's Saturday and I has
to be at the dry dock. But what will become of you?"

"There'll nothing become of me--no more than before."

"He will beat you?"

"Beat me! If he don't any more than beat me!" Jan fancied she was
smiling at him in the dark. "But I'd better go. Good-night."

"Good-night," said Jan. "And I'll see you to-morrow to say good-by."

"Yes," she said. "I'll be about. Good-night."

"Good-night," said Jan again, and found himself standing at the door
after it had opened and closed behind her.

* * * * *

"I wonder," thought Jan, "if he will beat her!" And he stooped to lock
the door. His hand was on the key, but he did not turn it. Who was that?
Jan had keen hearing. He jammed his ear against the crack. It was the
sound of breathing, heavy breathing, of breathing and tramping, and
now--Jan had been listening for perhaps a minute--of suppressed voices.

Jan stepped back to the washstand and poured out a glass of water. He
took it at a gulp. He had another. It was cold and bracing to his
fevered stomach. He stepped to the door, cautiously turned the knob and
slowly drew the door to him. He peeped out.