Sleep is one of the last things he thinks of just at present, his mind has been so wrought up by the events of the night.
The hotel remains open.

It is not customary, for there are no late trains to come in at Valetta, and the people keep early hours, as a usual thing, but this is an exceptional time of the year, preceding Lent, and there may be some other reason besides that causes an all-night open house.
Doctor Chicago finds a chair, and seats himself, first of all to reflect upon the singular train of events that has marked a red cross in his career since the last sunrise.
His stricken arm pains him, but he has not the slightest fear as to the ultimate outcome of that episode; the self-inflicted scorching with the hot iron effectually ended that.
At last he draws out the piece of paper which Philander secured in the room that marked their downfall, the paper that bears the signature of Sister Magdalen.
Lady Ruth's reminiscence has thus proved of great value to him.
He takes out one of the notes which came periodically to him--it is the one that bore the postmark of Valetta, Malta.

Holding the two side by side, he eagerly compares them.
"Yes, the same hand penned both--I would swear to that." Long he muses, sitting there.

The papers have been put away, his cigar falls unheeded to the floor, and his thoughts fly far away.
Finally he arises, with a sigh, and seeks his room, to rest very poorly, between the pain of his arm and the worry of his mind.
Another day dawns upon Valetta.
As yet the tourists, who sojourn at the city of Malta by the sea, have received no intimation that the disabled steamer is in a condition to proceed.
This means another day on the island, for which few are really sorry, as Valetta is not an unpleasant place in winter.
Our friends gather around the breakfast-table, and conversation is brisk.

More than once Lady Ruth watches the face of John Craig.