ust 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 neighbor, 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 savor 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 were
discussing my poor friend's tragic end; but as the night wore on, the
deck grew empty, and I sat amid a silence that in my miserable state I
welcomed more than the presence of any friend, saving only the one whom
I should never welcome again.

Since I had not counted the bells, to this day