silent, none speaking save in whispers,
and all watching with anxious faces either the receding heads in the
water or the unfortunate boat's crew. Hungerford showed himself a
thorough sailor. Hanging to the davit, he quietly, reassuringly, gave
the order for righting the boat, virtually taking the command out of
the hands of the first officer, who was trembling with nervousness.
Hungerford was right; this man's days as a sailor were over. The
accident from which he had suffered had broken his nerve, stalwart as he
was. But Hungerford was as cool as if this were ordinary boat-practice.
Soon the boat was drawn up again, and others took the place of those who
had disappeared. Then it was lowered safely, and, with Hungerford erect
in the bows, it was pulled swiftly along the path we had come.

At length, too, the great ship turned round, but not in her tracks. It
is a pleasant fiction that these great steamers are easily managed. They
can go straight ahead, but their huge proportions are not adapted for
rapid movement. However, the work of rescue was begun. Sailors were
aloft on watch, Captain Ascott was on the bridge, sweeping the sea with
his glass; order was restored. But the ship had the feeling of a home
from which some familiar inmate had been taken, to return no more.
Children clasped their mothers' hands and said, "Mother, was it the poor
quartermaster?" and men who the day before had got help from the petty
officers in the preparation of costumes, said mournfully: "Fife the
gunner was one of them."

But who was the man first to go overboard--and who was it first gave the
alarm? There were rumours, but no one was sure. All at once I remembered
something peculiar in that cry of "Man overboard!" and it shocked me. I
hurried below, and went to the cabin of Boyd Madras. It was empty; but
on a shelf lay a large envelope, addressed to Hungerford and myself.
I tore it open. There was a small packet, which I knew contained the
portrait he had worn on his bosom, addressed to Mrs. Falchion; and the
other was a single sheet directed to me, fully written upon, and marked
in the corner: "To be made public."

So, he had disappeared from the play? He had made his exit? He had
satisfied the code at last? Before opening the letter addressed to me,
I looked round. His clothes were folded upon one of the berths; but the
garments of masquerade were not in the cabin. Had he then gone out of
the world in the garb of a mummer? Not altog