ye?"

The sound of the voice approached the two men on the stairs. The thread
of light broadened and danced on the stone. High up there appeared the
great figure of a man in a seaman's jersey with a peaked cap on his
head. In his broad rough hands he held a candle, which he shaded with
his fingers while he peered anxiously and expectantly down the dark and
narrow funnel of the stairway.

"Hulloh!" he cried. "Hulloh, there!"

The hail rang down in the night. Sir Graham was trembling.

"I see ye," cried the Skipper. "It's Jack, eh? Isn't it little Jack,
boys? Young monkey! Up to his damned larks that I've reckoned up these
many nights while I've stood ringin' here! I'll strike the life out of
ye, Jack, I will. Wait till I come down, lads, wait till I come down!"

And he sprang forward, his huge limbs shaking with glad excitement. His
feet missed a stair in his hurry of approach, and throwing abroad his
hands to the stone walls of the belfry in an effort to save himself, he
let fall the candlestick. It dropped on the stones with a dull clatter
as the darkness closed in. The Skipper, who had recovered his footing,
swore a round oath. Sir Graham and Uniacke heard his heavy tread
descending until his breath was warm on their faces.

"Where are ye, lads?" he cried out. "Where are ye? Can't ye throw a word
of welcome to a mate?"

He laid his hands heavily on Uniacke's shoulders in the dark, and felt
him over with an uncertain touch.

"Is it Jack?" he said. "Why, what 'a ye got on, lad? Is it Jack, I say?"

"Skipper," Uniacke said, in a low voice, "it's not Jack." As he spoke he
struck a match. The tiny light flared up unevenly right in the Skipper's
eyes. They were sea-blue and blazing with eagerness and with the pitiful
glare of madness. Over the clergyman's shoulder the pale painter with
his keen eyes swept the bearded face of the Skipper with a rapid and
greedy glance. By the time the match dwindled and the blackness closed
in again the face was a possession of his memory. He saw it even though
it was actually invisible; the rugged features dignified by madness, the
clear, blue eyes full of a saddening fire, and--ere the match faded--of
a horror of disappointment, the curling brown beard that flowed down on
the blue jersey. But he had no time to dwell on it now, for a dreary
noise rose up in that confined space. It was the great seaman whimpering
pitifully in the dark.

"It isn't Jack," he blubbered, and they cou