nce alone, the chance of Mr. Powell's life,
forced him to turn the abominable weapon against himself.

I imparted my theory to Mr. Powell who accepted it at once as, in a
sense, favourable to the father of Mrs. Anthony. Then he waved his hand.
"Don't let us think of it."

I acquiesced and very soon he observed dreamily:

"I was with Captain and Mrs. Anthony sailing all over the world for near
on six years. Almost as long as Franklin."

"Oh yes! What about Franklin?" I asked.

Powell smiled. "He left the _Ferndale_ a year or so afterwards, and I
took his place. Captain Anthony recommended him for a command. You
don't think Captain Anthony would chuck a man aside like an old glove.
But of course Mrs. Anthony did not like him very much. I don't think she
ever let out a whisper against him but Captain Anthony could read her
thoughts.

And again Powell seemed to lose himself in the past. I asked, for
suddenly the vision of the Fynes passed through my mind.

"Any children?"

Powell gave a start. "No! No! Never had any children," and again
subsided, puffing at his short briar pipe.

"Where are they now?" I inquired next as if anxious to ascertain that all
Fyne's fears had been misplaced and vain as our fears often are; that
there were no undesirable cousins for his dear girls, no danger of
intrusion on their spotless home. Powell looked round at me slowly, his
pipe smouldering in his hand.

"Don't you know?" he uttered in a deep voice.

"Know what?"

"That the _Ferndale_ was lost this four years or more. Sunk. Collision.
And Captain Anthony went down with her."

"You don't say so!" I cried quite affected as if I had known Captain
Anthony personally. "Was--was Mrs. Anthony lost too?"

"You might as well ask if I was lost," Mr. Powell rejoined so testily as
to surprise me. "You see me here,--don't you."

He was quite huffy, but noticing my wondering stare he smoothed his
ruffled plumes. And in a musing tone.

"Yes. Good men go out as if there was no use for them in the world. It
seems as if there were things that, as the Turks say, are written. Or
else fate has a try and sometimes misses its mark. You remember that
close shave we had of being run down at night, I told you of, my first
voyage with them. This go it was just at dawn. A flat calm and a fog
thick enough to slice with a knife. Only there were no explosives on
board. I was on deck and I remember the cursed, murderous thing l