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 emerged from the shadows of the room and came forward. And then slowly, as full consciousness returned, the girl realized that she was on an ocean-going vessel in a cabin or stateroom very beautifully appointed. She started up in her bed and looked out of the port-hole to see the amber crests of waves leaping rapidly past. Then she heard the woman’s voice speaking.

“You are feeling better?”

Doris turned and looked at her, a woman of middle age, with a kindly face, dressed in white linen.

“What yacht is this?” she asked.

“The Sylph, miss—Mr. Rizzio’s,” she replied.

Doris thought for a moment. The last thing her waking consciousness remembered were the cliffs of Rhuda Mor.

“How did I come here?” she asked again.

The woman shook her head. “I don’t know, miss.”

Her manner was kind and most respectful but her tone was decisive. She was obeying instructions.

“Is Mr. Rizzio aboard?” Doris asked again.

“Yes, miss. And he asked me to tell you that when you felt sufficiently recovered he would be glad to wait upon you in the saloon.”

“Oh, I understand.”

When Doris rose and put her feet to the swaying deck, nausea overcame her. But the woman, who was prepared for this emergency, offered a glass filled with cloudy liquid.

“Drink this,” she said. “It will make you feel better.”

Doris looked into the woman’s face, and recognizing the aromatic odor, took the draught.

The nausea passed after a moment and she managed to get up and make her way to the bathroom. As