leaned over her taffrail; ran forward and peered over
her bows. Her counter was too short to conceal a man, and her stem had
absolutely no overhang at all; yet no man was to be seen, nor boat nor
sign of a man. I tried the companion: it was covered and padlocked.
The sail-hatch and fore-hatch were also fastened and padlocked, and the
skylights covered with tarpaulin and screwed firmly down. A mouse could
not have found its way below, except perhaps by the stove-pipe or the
pipe leading down to the chain-locker.

I was no believer in ghosts, but I had to hit on some theory there and
then. My nerves had been out of order for a month or two, and the long
railway journey must have played havoc with them. The whole thing was a
hallucination. So I told myself while pulling the coverings off the
skylights, but somehow got mighty little comfort out of it; and I will
not deny that I fumbled a bit with the padlock on the main hatchway, or
that I looked down a second time before setting foot on the companion
ladder.

She was a sweet ship; and the air below, though stuffy, had no taste of
bilge in it. I explored main cabin, sleeping cabins, forecastle.
The movable furniture had been taken ashore, as I had been told; but the
fixtures were in good order, the decorations in good taste. Not a panel
had shrunk or warped, nor could I find any leakage. At the same time I
could find no evidence that she had been visited lately by man or ghost.
The only thing that seemed queer was the inscription "29.56" on the beam
in the forecastle. It certainly struck me that the surveyor must have
under-registered her, but for the moment I thought little about it.

Passing back through the main cabin I paused to examine one or two of
the fittings--particularly a neat glass-fronted bookcase, with a small
sideboard below it, containing three drawers and a cellaret.
The bookcase was empty and clean swept; so also were the drawers.
At the bottom of the cellaret I found a couple of flags stowed--a
tattered yellow quarantine-signal tightly rolled into a bundle, and a
red ensign neatly folded. As I lifted out the latter, there dropped
from its folds and fell upon the cabin floor--a book.

I picked it up--a thin quarto bound in black morocco, and rather the
worse for wear. On its top side it bore the following inscription in
dingy gilt letters:--

JOB'S HOTEL, PENLEVEN,

VISITORS' BOOK.