swung into the water.
The steamer was being put about, describing a wide arc around the
little boat dancing on the deep blue rollers....

Of the next hour, I cannot bear to write at all. Long as I had known
him, I was ignorant of my friend's powers as a swimmer, but I judged
that he must have been a poor one from the fact that he had sunk so
rapidly in a calm sea. Except the hat, no trace of Nayland Smith
remained when the boat got to the spot.

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE MUMMY

Dinner was out of the question that night for all of us. Karamaneh,
who had spoken no word, but, grasping my hands, had looked into my
eyes--her own glassy with unshed tears--and then stolen away to her
cabin, had not since reappeared. Seated upon my berth, I stared
unseeingly before me, upon a changed ship, a changed sea and sky--upon
another world. The poor old Bishop, my neighbour, had glanced in
several times, as he hobbled by, and his spectacles were unmistakably
humid; but even he had vouchsafed no word, realizing that my sorrow
was too deep for such consolation.

When at last I became capable of connected thought, I found myself
faced by a big problem. Should I place the facts of the matter, as I
knew them to be, before the Captain? or could I hope to apprehend
Fu-Manchu's servant by the methods suggested by my poor friend? That
Smith's death was an accident, I did not believe for a moment; it was
impossible not to link it with the attempt upon Karamaneh. In my
misery and doubt, I determined to take counsel with Dr. Stacey. I
stood up, and passed out on to the deck.

Those passengers whom I met on my way to his room regarded me in
respectful silence. By contrast, Stacey's attitude surprised and even
annoyed me.

"I'd be prepared to stake all I possess--although it's not much," he
said, "that this was not the work of your hidden enemy."

He blankly refused to give me his reasons for the statement and
strongly advised me to watch and wait but to make no communication to
the Captain.

At this hour I can look back and savour again something of the
profound dejection of that time. I could not face the passengers; I
even avoided Karamaneh and Aziz. I shut myself in my cabin and sat
staring aimlessly into the growing darkness. The steward knocked,
once, inquiring if I needed anything, but I dismissed him abruptly. So
I passed the evening and the greater part of the night.

Those groups of promenaders who passed my door invariably