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On his face stretched along the cabin floor, his arms extended, his right hand grasping the butt-end of a pistol, was the body of Mr Lawrence. That the pistol had quite recently been exploded might be known by the smell of the gunpowder that lurked in the atmosphere. By the side of this motionless figure lying prone, knelt the distorted shape of Paul, the steward, who, on the door being flung open, and on catching sight of Captain Acton and the Admiral, sprang to his feet and recoiled into a corner of the cabin, with his face blanched by terror which had immediately visited him on top of the wild, uncalculating passion of grief which commonly besieges vulgar persons of this man's mental calibre who are likewise freaks of nature.,

"Hush," cautioned Billy. "Ma's downstairs wide awake and she's awful cross. What you been doin' to rile her, Anse?",

Wilson drained his cup and set it down in the saucer, methodically. The news did not seem to surprise him. "Who made the offer, Hinter?" he asked.,

But when Billy, dressed in his own suit, descended the stairs to peer cautiously out, it was to find the room deserted. Mrs. Wilson's voice, high-pitched and excited, came from the back yard.

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"Well, we'll see, young Mr. Impudence." The long pointer rose and fell. Billy caught the stroke full on his palm. His face whitened with pain, but the smile did not leave his lips.,

"Yes, I have come straight from the Minorca.",

"Me singing!" exclaimed old John.,

He endeavoured to recollect himself that, by calming his terrors his memory might better serve him. Urgent alarms often induce vain hopes which we should laugh at in the cool mood. He believed he might have put that letter down in his bedroom, and perfectly well knowing that he had not done so, and yet coaxed by a will-o'-the-wisp hope, he ransacked the room as though he knew that in it was to be found a gold piece of value whose discovery demanded a careful search only. What was certain in his mind was that that letter was in his pocket when he walked that morning to visit the Minorca. He remembered withdrawing it from his pocket, but in what part of the walk he knew not, and re-perusing a portion of it to refresh his memory. He tried to find comfort in the recollection that the letter bore no address and no signature. But a thundercloud of horror came down on this feeble streak of sunshine when he recalled the damning, incriminating contents of that sheet[Pg 152] which he had scrawled in pencil at "The Swan Inn." Whoever found it would know that Mr Lawrence, and Mr Lawrence alone, had written it, and this, too, irrespective of the handwriting.