gun. There had been time to
get the crew on deck, but the final explosion had come before the boats
could be lowered. It had broken the ship in two; the forward part had
turned over and sunk with all on board; the after part was a mere mass
of twisted wreckage. The explosion had been so violent, that the
neighbouring ships also suffered--_La Republique_ so seriously that it
was only by hurrying her to a dry-dock she was kept from sinking. No one
had any theory, any explanation; there had been no warning, no
premonition. An instant, and it was over. But all agreed that the fire
could have had nothing to do with it.

Pigot, meanwhile, had spread his men out along the docks, where they
listened to every one, asked questions of every one. Not a rumour
escaped them, but, alas, for no rumour could they find foundation. The
wreck in the harbour was illuminated by the searchlights of the other
battleships, and Pigot caused himself to be rowed out to it, introduced
himself to Admiral Marin-Dabel, Maritime Prefect of Toulon, who had
taken personal charge of the rescue work, and spent half an hour
inspecting the melancholy scene. Then he landed again, and listened for
a time to the reports of his lieutenants. There was among them not a
single ray of light--not the slightest evidence to show that the
disaster had been anything but an accident. The fire in the store-room
had, it was whispered, been much more serious than the officers would
admit.

Pigot made his way slowly toward the hotel to report to his chief, but
as he crossed the Place d'Armes, a hand was laid upon his sleeve. He
turned, expecting to see one of his men. Instead, he found himself
looking into a face he did not know.

"Pardon, sir," he said. "You are, perhaps, mistaken."

"Oh, no, Pigot," said the stranger, with a little smile, "I am not
mistaken. It is you whom I wish to see."

"I do not remember you, sir," said Pigot, looking at him more closely.
"Have we met before?"

"Many times."

"Many times!" echoed Pigot, incredulously. "Surely not!" and he looked
again to make certain that the stranger was not intoxicated. "Where have
we met?"

"We met last," said the stranger, smiling again, "on _La Savoie_, in the
harbour of New York City. To be sure, I was not in this incarnation, but
I am sure you will recall the incident."[1]

Pigot drew a deep breath, and his face flushed.

"Ah," he said quietly, after a moment. "I remember. I wish you good
evening, M