he Tempest.

"Dear Sir," it began, "we are all naturally very much interested in
the wreck of the Flying Scud, and as soon as I mentioned that I had the
pleasure of making your acquaintance, a very general wish was expressed
that you would come and dine on board. It will give us all the greatest
pleasure to see you to-night, or in case you should be otherwise
engaged, to luncheon either to-morrow or to-day." A note of the hours
followed, and the document wound up with the name of "J. Lascelles
Sebright," under an undeniable statement that he was sincerely mine.

"No, Mr. Lascelles Sebright," I reflected, "you are not, but I begin
to suspect that (like the lady in the song) you are another's. You have
mentioned your adventure, my friend; you have been blown up; you have
got your orders; this note has been dictated; and I am asked on board
(in spite of your melancholy protests) not to meet the men, and not
to talk about the Flying Scud, but to undergo the scrutiny of some one
interested in Carthew: the doctor, for a wager. And for a second wager,
all this springs from your facility in giving the address." I lost no
time in answering the billet, electing for the earliest occasion; and at
the appointed hour, a somewhat blackguard-looking boat's crew from the
Norah Creina conveyed me under the guns of the Tempest.

The ward-room appeared pleased to see me; Sebright's brother officers,
in contrast to himself, took a boyish interest in my cruise; and much
was talked of the Flying Scud; of how she had been lost, of how I had
found her, and of the weather, the anchorage, and the currents
about Midway Island. Carthew was referred to more than once without
embarrassment; the parallel case of a late Earl of Aberdeen, who died
mate on board a Yankee schooner, was adduced. If they told me little
of the man, it was because they had not much to tell, and only felt an
interest in his recognition and pity for his prolonged ill-health. I
could never think the subject was avoided; and it was clear that the
officers, far from practising concealment, had nothing to conceal.

So far, then, all seemed natural, and yet the doctor troubled me. This
was a tall, rugged, plain man, on the wrong side of fifty, already gray,
and with a restless mouth and bushy eyebrows: he spoke seldom, but then
with gaiety; and his great, quaking, silent laughter was infectious.
I could make out that he was at once the quiz of the ward-room and
perfectly respecte