He had evidently gone below.

That night we stood alternate watches, one of us sleeping at a time; for there was no telling what Wolf Larsen might do.

He was certainly capable of anything.
The next day we waited, and the next, and still he made no sign.
"These headaches of his, these attacks," Maud said, on the afternoon of the fourth day; "Perhaps he is ill, very ill.

He may be dead." "Or dying," was her afterthought when she had waited some time for me to speak.
"Better so," I answered.
"But think, Humphrey, a fellow-creature in his last lonely hour." "Perhaps," I suggested.
"Yes, even perhaps," she acknowledged.

"But we do not know.