In one half-opened hand he was holding the watch. He was also provided
with a scrap of paper and the stump of a pencil. Mrs. Travers was
confident that he did not either hear or see her.
"Captain Jorgenson, you no doubt think. . . ."
He tried to wave her away with the stump of the pencil. He did not want
to be interrupted in his strange occupation. He was playing very gravely
indeed with those bits of string. "I lighted them all together," he
murmured, keeping one eye on the dial of the watch. Just then the
shortest piece of string went out, utterly consumed. Jorgenson made
a hasty note and remained still while Mrs. Travers looked at him with
stony eyes thinking that nothing in the world was any use. The other
threads of smoke went on vanishing in spirals before the attentive
Jorgenson.
"What are you doing?" asked Mrs. Travers, drearily.
"Timing match . . . precaution. . . ."
He had never in Mrs. Travers' experience been less spectral than then.
He displayed a weakness of the flesh. He was impatient at her intrusion.
He divided his attention between the threads of smoke and the face of
the watch with such interest that the sudden reports of several guns
breaking for the first time for days the stillness of the lagoon and the
illusion of the painted scene failed to make him raise his head.
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