, and his voice was harsh, "it's Dampier. The other man's
surely Bramfield. Harry's not with him."

He glanced at Agatha, who turned away, and sat down in the nearest
chair. She made no comment, and there was an oppressive silence, through
which the beat of hoofs and rattle of wheels rang more distinctly.

It seemed a long time before Dampier came in. He shook hands with Agatha
and Mrs. Hastings diffidently.

"You remember me?" he asked.

"Of course," answered Mrs. Hastings, with impatience in her tone.
"Where's Harry?"

The skipper spread a hard hand out, and sat down heavily.

"That," he said, "is what I have to tell you. He asked me to."

"He asked you to?" questioned Agatha, and though her voice was strained
there was relief in it.

Dampier made a gesture, which seemed to beseech her patience.

"Yes," he said, "if--anything went wrong--he told me I was to come here
to Mrs. Hastings."

Agatha turned her head away, but Mrs. Hastings saw that she caught her
breath before she cried:

"Then something has gone wrong!"

"About as wrong as it could." Dampier met her gaze gravely. "Wyllard and
two other men are drowned."

He paused as if watching for words that might soften the dire meaning of
his message, and Mrs. Hastings saw Agatha shiver. The girl turned slowly
around with a drawn white face. It was, however, Hastings who spoke,
almost sternly.

"Go on," he said.

"I'm to tell you all?"

This time it was Agatha who broke in.

"Yes," she replied, with a steadiness that struck the others as being
strained and unnatural, "you must tell us all."

Dampier, who appeared to shrink from his task, began awkwardly, but he
gained coherence and force of expression as he proceeded. He made them
understand something of the grim resolution which had animated Wyllard.
He pictured, in terse seaman's words, the little schooner plunging to
windward over long phalanxes of icy seas, or crawling white with snow
through the blinding fog. His listeners saw the big combers tumbling
ready to break short upon the dipping bows, and half-frozen men
struggling for dear life with folds of madly thrashing sail. The
pictures were necessarily somewhat blurred and hazy, for after all only
an epic poet could fittingly describe the things that must be done and
borne at sea, and epic poets are not bred in the forecastle. When he
reached the last scene he gained dramatic power, and Agatha's face grew
white and tense. She saw the dim fi