en Brown?"

"He has known him probably," I explained. "Marlow here appears to know
something of every soul that ever went afloat in a sailor's body."

Mr. Powell seemed wonderfully amenable to verbal suggestions for looking
again out of the window, he muttered:

"He was a good soul."

This clearly referred to Captain Anthony of the _Ferndale_. Marlow
addressed his protest to me.

"I did not know him. I really didn't. He was a good soul. That's
nothing very much out of the way--is it? And I didn't even know that
much of him. All I knew of him was an accident called Fyne.

At this Mr. Powell who evidently could be rebellious too turned his back
squarely on the window.

"What on earth do you mean?" he asked. "An--accident--called Fyne," he
repeated separating the words with emphasis.

Marlow was not disconcerted.

"I don't mean accident in the sense of a mishap. Not in the least. Fyne
was a good little man in the Civil Service. By accident I mean that
which happens blindly and without intelligent design. That's generally
the way a brother-in-law happens into a man's life."

Marlow's tone being apologetic and our new acquaintance having again
turned to the window I took it upon myself to say:

"You are justified. There is very little intelligent design in the
majority of marriages; but they are none the worse for that. Intelligence
leads people astray as far as passion sometimes. I know you are not a
cynic."

Marlow smiled his retrospective smile which was kind as though he bore no
grudge against people he used to know.

"Little Fyne's marriage was quite successful. There was no design at all
in it. Fyne, you must know, was an enthusiastic pedestrian. He spent
his holidays tramping all over our native land. His tastes were simple.
He put infinite conviction and perseverance into his holidays. At the
proper season you would meet in the fields, Fyne, a serious-faced, broad-
chested, little man, with a shabby knap-sack on his back, making for some
church steeple. He had a horror of roads. He wrote once a little book
called the 'Tramp's Itinerary,' and was recognised as an authority on the
footpaths of England. So one year, in his favourite over-the-fields,
back-way fashion he entered a pretty Surrey village where he met Miss
Anthony. Pure accident, you see. They came to an understanding, across
some stile, most likely. Little Fyne held very solemn views as to the
destiny of women on th