e before the mutinous crew
would consent to row away, so near to the vessel that any noise would
have necessarily come to his ears? He had. How, then, was this? That
yacht _must_ have gone down, and she _must_ have gone down with
it--drowned in her cabin, suffocated there by the waters, without
power to make one cry. So it must have been; but still here she was,
alive, strong, vengeful. It could not be a case of resemblance; for
this woman had penetrated his disguise, had recognized him, and at
the recognition had started to her feet with wild exclamations,
hounding on her companion to pursuit.

But in addition to this there was something still more strange.
However she may have escaped--as she must have done--by what
wonderful concurrence of circumstances had she met with Obed Chute,
and entered into this close friendship with him? That man was
familiar with a dark past, to which she was related in some strange
way. How was it, then, that of all men in the world, this one had
become her friend and protector?

But, even so, there was another mystery, so strange, so dark, so
inexplicable, that the others seemed as nothing. For he had
discovered in her the one whom Lord Chetwynde was seeking with such
zeal, and such passion, and such unfailing constancy. How was it that
Lord Chetwynde had found her, and where had he found her? and if he
had found her, how had he known her? Was he not living with Hilda on
terms at least of respect, and acting toward her as though he
believed her to be his wife? What could be the cause that had brought
him into connection with Obed Chute? Obed Chute had been the
confidant of Lady Chetwynde, and knew the story of her shame. How was
it that the son of such a mother could associate so habitually with
the man who so well knew the history of that mother? If he were not
acquainted with his mother's history himself, how could he have found
out Obed Chute for his friend? and if he were acquainted with it, how
could he have tolerated him as such? From either point of view the
question was unanswerable, and the problem insoluble. Yet the fact
remained that Lord Chetwynde was in the habit of making constant
visits to the house of the man, the very man, to whom the history of
Lord Chetwynde's mother was known as a story of shame, and who
himself had been the chief agent in helping her, as it appeared, from
the ruin to which she had flung herself.

Then, again, there arose the question as to what mi