"That's all," repeated Slade, a note of insistence in his voice. "Why don't you say something? Confound you, why don't you say something?" His speech rose husky and cracked. "Don't you believe it?"
"Hold on," said the surgeon quietly. "No need to get excited."
"Oh, well," muttered the reporter, with a sudden lapse. "Possibly you think I'm romancing. It doesn't matter. I don't suppose I'd believe it myself, in your place."
"But we're heading for the island," suggested Forsythe.
"That's so," cried Slade. "Well, that's all right. Believe or disbelieve as much as you like. Only get Percy Darrow off that island. Then we'll have his version. There are a few things I want to find out about, myself."
"There are several that promise to be fairly interesting," said Forsythe, under his breath.
Slade turned to the captain. "Have you any questions to put to me, sir?" he asked formally.
"Just one moment," interrupted Trendon. "Boy, a pony of brandy for Mr. Slade."
The reporter drank the liquor and again turned to Captain Parkinson.
"Only about our men," said the commanding officer, after a little thought.
Slade shook his head.
"I'm sorry I can't help you there, sir."
"Dr. Trendon said that you knew nothing about Edwards."
