Mr. Richard Loide was getting into the sere, the yellow leaf. A certain amount of baldness on his head he covered with a wig. His age and the wig prompted him to two courses of action.
He knew that he would be at a disadvantage in any personal struggle which might result from the steps he proposed taking. He discreetly determined to avoid one.
Firearms, in dealing with the man with the money round his waist, were out of the question. The noise would frustrate the very object he had in view—would attract the attention of others in the ship.
He did not desire an audience for the performance he had in mind.
So he bethought him of a long, stiletto shaped, yet fine pointed, two-edged knife he had seen for sale in a shop window.
He went to that shop, and acquired the weapon, tested its razor-like edge on a hair, then on a piece of paper, and was satisfied with the result.
He hoped that Mr. Depew would, soon after leaving Liverpool, lie down in his bunk. He was anxious for that position, because it, apart from the knife, would give him an advantage.
In plain words, he proposed cutting the throat of Mr. Depew. It struck Loide as being an effective way of silencing, in a double sense, his man.
He did not suppose that a cry, if the man were able to raise one, would attract much attention, or be heard above the noise of the ship; but he did not want to take any unnecessary risk.
So he figured in his own mind that method of dealing with the American—killing two birds with one stone.
If, on the other hand, Depew did not lie down, then he would have to use his weapon stiletto fashion. A spring from his bunk on to his victim standing with his back towards him, and a powerful downward sweep and plunge, would be half way successful.
He imagined that most men threw up their arms and staggered back on the happening of such a thing—gathered the idea from witnessing the dramas of the Adelphi—that would enable him to turn and plunge the weapon into the man's heart.
All that would be necessary, then, was to put him in his bunk before the blood began to make a mess, take from his body the notes which engirdled it, and be ready to leave on the tender for Queenstown the moment that vessel came alongside the liner.
He knew that two-edged weapons were proverbially dangerous, but he was comforted by the recollection of another proverb about cutting both ways.
As to its wig, he determined to change its color. It would be as well.
Not that he feared detection much; still the prudent man always took precautions, and Mr. Loide rated prudence very high.
He knew that when the boat left Queenstown it did not stop again till it got to the other side. That he counted on.
It would enable him to reach London, cash the notes, and be prepared for anything which might happen. He felt that with the money in his possession he would be prepared for anything.
He knew that when the purser went his rounds, or the steward, or whoever it might be, and discovered the dead body, all would be confusion.
The doctor and captain would be sent for, and an examination entered upon—but all the time the vessel would be leaving Queenstown further and further behind.
He knew the coursing of these ocean greyhounds well enough to know that the ship would not put back. That hundreds of passengers would not be inconvenienced, simply because one was dead, that the ship would go plowing her way right on.
He turned up in the post-office directory the name of a wig maker the other side of London, and took a cab there.
He told some wholly unnecessary lies about the need of a colored wig, but might have saved himself the trouble, because the sale of a wig or wigs was an every-day occurrence with the keeper of the shop.
When Loide saw his reflection in the peruquier's mirror he was astounded at the change in his appearance.
The shopman, thinking he was dealing with an amateur actor, very kindly drew attention to his bushy black eyebrows.
"Want toning down," he said, "to match the wig."
"How do you—how do it?"
The shopman produced a little stick of what looked to the lawyer like cosmetic, and handed it to the customer.
The look of ignorance concerning its use made the man smile.
"Sit down," he said; "it's evident you are a new hand at making up. Let me show you."
He did. Daubed the grease paint on the hair, on the brows, and then combed them out.
When Loide looked in the glass again he started in astonishment.... He paid the man, thanked him, and withdrew.
The shop of a ready made clothier's caught his attention. He went in and bought a light colored cutaway coat and vest and soft cap—he had worn black clothing and the regulation chimney pot hat for the last thirty years of his life.
At a hosier's he purchased a colored shirt with a turn down collar, and a colored bow.
His immaculate white shirt, stiff upstanding collar and stock, should be discarded for the time being.
Later on, when he had donned this attire, he marveled at the change in himself. He was confident that no living soul would be able to recognize him.
And curiously enough, nature assisted him.
As he sat in the train to Liverpool, the loss of his upstanding collar and stock made his open neck an easy prey to the draft. When he set foot on the deck of the steamer he had a sore throat and a cold, which made his voice so raucous that no soul would have recognized in it the clear, distinct utterance of Mr. Loide, the lawyer.
His portmanteau on board, after satisfying the officer in charge of his right to a berth, he at once took possession.
He was lying in his berth—apparently asleep—when the occupant of the other half of the cabin entered.
He was lying with his face to the wall, and only his red hair was visible. That and the smart colored cutaway suit, he felt, made him as much unlike the city lawyer as well could be. He did not fear Depew's recognition.
Soon after the second man entered the cabin, the vessel started. Loide knew at what hour she was expected to arrive off her one and only stopping place.
During the night, it was fair to assume that no officer of the ship would come to the cabin, and during the night he would kill and rob the other man. In the early morning he would leave on the Queenstown tender. That was his scheme.
He kept in his bunk. By the electric light in the cabin his companion read for some time.
He could hear the rustling of the newspaper; he dared not look round. About midnight the paper was thrown down, and the listener heard the sounds of a man making ready for his berth.
And presently the electric button was turned, and the cabin was in darkness.
The lawyer's heart beat the faster then. So far all was going as well as he could wish.
Darkness, and his victim recumbent, perhaps asleep. What could he wish for more? Fortune was favoring him.
There were three hours now to wait before the reaching of Queenstown, and during those three hours the other man went to sleep.
Loide knew it, because he heard the sleeper's deep, heavy breathing, which bordered closely on snoring.
He handled his weapon, and dropped noiselessly to his stockinged feet. Paused—the same still, regular breathing.
He went to the door and noiselessly shot home the bolt. Paused—the same still, regular breathing.
Then he prepared to stop that breathing forever.
Before his companion had entered the cabin, Loide had located everything in it.
Although in the dark, he knew the exact position of all things. So he reached the sleeper's side without a stumble or noise.
He knew where to place his hand on a towel, and he placed it. Folded it into a sort of pad, and gripped the middle in his left hand.
He bent over the sleeper, heard his breathing, and located his mouth by the feel of the warm breath. He paused to notice that the sleeper was lying on his back, then he gripped his knife—saw fashion.
In another moment he had clapped the towel over his victim's mouth, and drawn down the knife with a sawing, cutting movement.
There was just a faint, gurgling sound for a moment, a convulsive quiver of the whole of the sleeper's body, then stillness. The towel had stifled any possible cry—the knife had done the rest.
Loide stood there for a moment to recover his breath. He could almost hear his own heart beating.
He tried to still it by thinking that there was not a scrap of risk, that it was all over now, that, presently, he would possess nineteen thousand pounds.
That last thought was not without its comfort. It is a fashion to speak of money as if it were dross, but as a salve to the conscience, pounds, shillings, and pence are unsurpassed.
The towel he was holding, he opened and threw it over the dead man's head and shoulders. He was not hyper-sensitive, but he wanted to avoid seeing what the towel would hide.
Then he turned the button of the electric light.
He looked round—not a sign of a struggle, not a drop of blood. Yet stay—his right hand! He must wash it.
Quickly he had water in the basin and was cleaning that hateful red stain away. While he wiped his hands, he reflected that he had but to pull the head curtains, and the body would appear to be that of an ordinary sleeping man.
That way the ship might get a dozen hours away from Queenstown before discovery. He shook hands with himself over the happiness of the idea he had—so far—carried out so cleverly.
Then he turned up the blankets and sheeting of the bunk. For obvious reasons he preferred turning them up from the feet to turning them down from the head.
Depew had, with an oath, told him that, sleeping or waking, the belt would never leave him. He thought grimly that now the man was dead the oath would be broken.
He started in surprise; the man was not wearing a belt! He stood still, holding the bedclothes in sheer amazement.
He had expected the thing to be so easy of accomplishment—and the object of his search was not there at all!
He stepped back, and fell rather than sat on his own berth. He was more than surprised.
Then it occurred to him that perhaps, after all, the man had locked the money in one of his portmanteaus. Loide was thankful that he had time before him, in which to make search. He had been wise not to leave things till the last moment.
He felt in the dead man's coat, vest, and ultimately in a trousers pocket found two keys, tied together with a piece of twine. These he presently found fitted the portmanteaus.
He inserted a key in one, turned the lock, and unbuckled the straps. The bag contained but one thing—a huge parcel wrapped in newspapers.
He would try the other bag—did so. Found it contained five smaller parcels, four long shaped and one something like a large football.
He picked up one of the long parcels and felt it. It had a curious half hard feeling.
He sat on his berth again and opened it on his knees. There was no string round the parcel.
As he held the end of the paper it unwound itself, and the contents dropped on to the floor—a human arm and hand!
He clapped his own hand to his mouth and so stifled a scream.
It is all very well to be cool over your own murderous work, but when you come across another man's, it is apt to startle you. Loide was the most startled individual on the Atlantic at that particular moment.
He sat there in stony amazement and horror. He feared to open the other parcels. Still he had to.
Qualms had to be kept down. The possession of nineteen thousand pounds depended on his search.
He imagined that Depew had murdered some one in England, and was taking the body out, perhaps to hide traces of his crime in the sea.
So curiously fashioned was the lawyer's intellect that he was rather glad that he had killed Depew—looked upon himself as a kind of weapon in the hand of justice.
There is no accounting for the kinks into which a man's intellect will twist.
The avenger idea gave him the necessary courage to go on examining the rest of the parcels. Not a solitary thing save of the awful kind the first was.
The big parcel in the other portmanteau made him shudder in horror. He was glad when he was able to shut the bags and get rid of the sight of those horrible bundles.
Then another bag—a little hand bag—caught his attention. He felt mad with himself that he had not examined that first.
It needed no key. A pressure of the lock opened it, and he turned the contents on the floor; collars, handkerchiefs, shirts, and socks—nothing else.
Once more he sat on his bunk—sat there with his chin in the palms of his hands, thinking.
How long he sat there he never knew. He was awakened by the steamer's gongs; the engine room was being signaled.
He clambered to the port-hole, and in the gray of the early morning he could see they were off Queenstown, and the tender was nearly alongside.
He had no time to lose. What should he do?
Then it occurred to him that, as a measure of precaution, the man had given his belt to the captain, to be locked up in the ship's strong-room. That was the solution of the mystery, then.
He cursed his luck, himself, and the dead man. For absolutely nothing he had run all this risk, and killed a man, and had yet to escape.
It was—from his point of view—perfectly monstrous. If the dead man could have wanted revenge, surely he was having it then.
There was a screech from the tender's siren; she was coming alongside.
He put on his boots, and as he did so there was a sound of rapping at the door. He hurriedly pulled the head curtains of his victim's berth, and, shooting back the bolt, opened the door.
"Any letters or telegrams for shore, sir?"
"Is there time to go ashore?"
"Can if you like, sir; the tender will bring you back. You will get about an hour ashore."
"Very well, I will go, then."
"At once, sir. The tender will leave in less than five minutes."
And the officer went on his round collecting letters and telegrams.
Loide put on his hat, flung the blood stained knife out of the port-hole, turned the button of the electric light, and stepped outside, closing the door after him.
Then he suddenly remembered that the most likely place of all he had overlooked. A sleeping man would place valuables beneath his pillow.
He entered the cabin again, turned the electric light button, and slid his hand under the dead man's pillow—nothing.
To make assurance doubly sure—much as he dreaded looking on the face of the man he had murdered—he pulled aside the towel.
Then for a second time he was paralyzed with astonishment and horror, and thrust his fingers in his mouth to prevent the escape of a cry. He had never before seen the face of his victim. It was not his client Depew.
Loide got off the boat safely. On the wharf at Queenstown he secured a position where, concealed himself, he could watch the liner.
Hours seemed to drag by which were in reality minutes. At last the tender put off with the mails and reached the steamer's side.
With his glasses he could see everything that was going on. There was no excitement.
The bags were handed on board, and presently he made out a wake of foam from the blades of the steamer's screw. The tender had turned and was coming back; the steamer was going on.
Loide breathed a deep sigh of relief. So far nothing had been discovered.
Ultimately he reached London, and let himself into his office after dark—as he had left it.
He made shirt, clothing, and wig, and all the coal he had in his office scuttle into a parcel, and a short while after that parcel was making a hole for itself in the soft mud under London Bridge.
The disguise was disposed of—and Richard was himself again.
An aggravated, very much upset Richard. He had committed actual murder, and was not a penny the richer for it.
The heinousness of the crime did not present itself to him; he rather looked at it from the standpoint of its barren financial result.
He had so counted on a large profit in connection with his quick return.
He had food for thought, sufficient to last an ordinary man many meals.
But Mr. Richard Loide was not an ordinary man. He no longer imagined those crisp Bank of England notes to be in the steamer's strong-room.
He did not believe they were even on the ship. That towel removed and a tragic story stared him in the face.
What did it mean?
That he could not fathom. One solid fact was existent—there had been foul play.
Some one had the notes. The man in whose possession they were had a hand in the murder. And that is where Mr. Loide hoped to step in and take a part in the drama.
The hand of death had lowered the curtain on the first act, and the lawyer just hankered after getting behind the scenes.
He formed an idea of his own that, for some reason, Depew was lurking in England; had bargained with the man Loide had killed to personate him on the boat, and so destroy a clue to his existence in London.
What then did the other, the cut up body mean? Who could that have been?
He regretted now that his horror had prevented his looking at the head.
That was another puzzle, and he could not in any way solve it.
But he was bent on one thing—the finding of Mr. Depew, and the bleeding of him for all he was worth.
Being a city lawyer, and moving in city financial circles, blackmailing had not for him the horrid appearance it presented to most people.
One gets used to the atmosphere one breathes daily, and the atmosphere of London city reeks of blackmail.
Suddenly a thought came to him which sent all the blood to his heart, and caused him to start to his feet in alarm.
Suppose he had been deceived? Suppose he had not handed the money over to the real George Depew?
He broke into a cold sweat at the mere idea!
He remembered how exceedingly lax he had been because Depew had frightened him.
The American had seen through the frauds on his aunt, and practically taxed the lawyer with them. Had he chosen, he could have made him disgorge all those gains of years.
Why had he not? If the real, genuine nephew, cute and sharp as he had been in getting the full value of the estate from the sale, why had he not, with his suspicions aroused, insisted on an inspection of the back accounts?
Why had he not? And once more the sweat of fear beaded on Loide's brow.
He was poor enough as it was. What if a real George Depew appeared on the scene and demanded that which was his?
The perspiration beads grew in size.
The lawyer called to mind how meagre had been the identification. He remembered that, frightened as he had been he had accepted a certificate of birth, and some envelopes directed to Depew in America, as confirmation that he was the real man.
For that the lawyer would never forgive himself. In ordinary circumstances he would have probed much more deeply.
That fright—that was what did it—unmanned him, and made him behave like a perfect ass. He could have kicked himself for an hour and rejoiced in the resultant pain.
He told himself that he needed punishment—badly.
He thought of his own disguise; how he had so changed his own appearance that he had not known himself in the mirror.
Why should not Mr. Depew have done a similar thing?
Then another thought. Did disguise account for the different appearance of the man who was now crossing the Atlantic with a gaping wound in his throat?
No; he felt that was not so. Depew was a head shorter than the man he had killed.
He was glad he remembered that, because it removed the slightest doubt. It convinced him that Depew was in London, and it must be his—Loide's—business to find him.
Find him, and put pertinent questions to him; make him do a sum in arithmetic—two into nineteen—and hand over the quotient.
He did not fear an interview. The unexpected always happens, and the unexpectant one is generally at a disadvantage.
Loide felt that. Felt that, in the language of Depew's country, he would be "upper dog" in the interview.
And then he set his wits to work—how to discover George Depew's whereabouts.
And meanwhile, in the same compass, within the radius of the city of London, another man was thinking—thinking with the same strained look on his face, too.
He was standing looking out of the window of a room in Finsbury Circus, standing there gnawing what was left of the nails of his hand, and watching but for one man's advent—the postman.
He was not looking for the telegraph boy—he knew it was too late for that—but a letter from his brother.
It had been arranged between them that the moment Arthur reached Queenstown in safety he should despatch a wire with the two words "All serene" if things were so.
And in case he should be asleep when the boat was off Queenstown, he had asked the purser to give him a call.
No such wire reached the dentist, hence his own disturbed serenity.
He waited and waited for it till he worked himself into such a state of nervousness—he had not his brother's iron will—that he shook from head to foot.
That no one in need of dental attention visited him that day was fortunate for the man with the aching tooth.
A trembling hand is not the best kind with which to grip forceps.
As the day passed by and nothing came, the dentist became positively ill. He drank all that was left of the bottle of brandy, and for the first time in his life went home the worse for it.
His wife was surprised, amazed, shocked. That was, perhaps, as well.
In her offended dignity she stood aloof from him. It was better so.
Long before breakfast in the morning he had left the house. He wanted to be in Finsbury Circus before the postman, and he was.
The first delivery—no letter. He staggered back, fell into a chair, and buried his face in his hands. What could it mean?
It did not occur to him that a letter from Queenstown could not reach so quickly.
His brain was pregnant with but two ideas. His brother had promised to telegraph—he had not. His brother had promised to write—he had not.
And he seemed to see that one question standing out in fiery letters on the wall: "What did it mean?"
He had the notes. He had instructions what to do with them, but he dared not carry out those instructions.
Suppose his brother had been arrested—arrested with the terrible contents of those two portmanteaus in his possession!
As each edition of the evening papers came out, he sent Sawyer for copies, but he gleaned nothing from them, no arrest was reported, nothing in any way bearing on the matter.
The purchase of the papers did no good—save sending him up in the estimation of his satellite.
Sawyer imagined that "the guv'nor had been putting a bit on the four legged 'uns," and was anxious to peruse the column captioned "All the Winners."
His own sporting instincts made him look up to his employer for the first time.
And the lawyer?
Made up his mind. It was risky what he proposed doing, because, as a man innocent of any knowledge of what had occurred, he was clearly, legally wrong in doing it.
Still he had to find Mr. Depew, and there was only one way to do it.
Fraught with risk—but he risked it. Desperate diseases need desperate remedies.
He sat down and pulled a sheet of his headed office paper towards him. Then—as a lawyer—he wrote a letter.
It was to the Bank of England stopping the numbers of the nineteen notes he had obtained from that institution, and paid over to Mr. Depew.
Bold, daring, but must necessarily be successful.
"Man overboard!"
The cry rang through the ship—as cries of that sort do—first uttered by the man who witnessed the happening, and then passed from mouth to mouth.
As a matter of fact it was a girl—a child—who had fallen overboard, and the nurse was standing with blanched face and clasped hands, watching what looked like a bundle of clothing on the surface of the ocean, which bundle the vessel was now rapidly leaving astern.
Then another cry rang out. It was literally as well as vocally a man overboard this time—a real man.
For such a title is surely due to one who plunges from a liner's deck into the sea to save another's life.
The gongs were ringing in the engine-room before the man touched the water, but a liner traveling at the rate of twenty knots an hour has a way on her.
"Full speed astern" showed on the indicator, and then careful handling of the vessel became necessary. Almost directly she stopped.
As she stopped, the boat which had been hanging from the outspread davits with a crew in her was rapidly lowered, and once in the water, vigorously rowed in the direction pointed out by the standing coxswain.
Rescuer and rescued were promptly hauled into the boat, and carried to the waiting ship, neither of them much the worse for their ducking.
The girl was seized by her mother and nurse, and speedily carried off to their own private cabin.
The rescuer—Gerald Danvers, a second-class passenger—at his own request went down the stoke hole.
Brave enough to dive into the sea, he yet had a dreadful fear of rheumatism, to which he was subject; hence his desire for the warmth of the stoke hole.
A drink of brandy and willing hands to rub him down and the warmth of the stoke hole soon made him himself.
He had at hand only the clothes he stood upright in; the rest of his wardrobe, packed in a portmanteau, was in the hold.
The usual custom was departed from, and a man despatched to try to find his portmanteau—a brown one with his initials "G. D." on it.
"Don't bring it down here, old chap," said Danvers to the man who had volunteered to fetch it. "Here are my keys. There are only clothes in it. Just bring me underflannels and shirt, that's all. I can wait while these trousers dry."
He had thrown off coat and vest and boots before he had dived.
The things were brought him, and he sat talking to the men while his trousers dried, as they very quickly did in such an atmosphere, and before long he was on deck again.
He would probably have been made to pose as a hero—for a shipload of passengers needs something to occupy its attention—but another more startling sensation came about.
The mere saving of a life sank into insignificance before the loss of one.
The sea was not rough, and very few passengers were in their berths. Nearly all of them sat down to the meals prepared for them.
Before dinner, the steward went over his list, and found that the occupants of one of the two berthed cabins had not figured at breakfast or luncheon.
He went to the door of the cabin, and rapped with his knuckles—twice—thrice. Getting no answer, he turned the handle and pushed open the door.
One berth was empty; in the other the occupant was apparently asleep.
"Don't you feel well, sir?"
No answer. Question repeated. Same result.
Then the steward drew aside the curtains, and was transformed into the whitest faced being aboard that ship. For what he saw was a man lying there with his throat cut.
To bound out of that cabin and fetch the doctor and captain was the work of a few moments.
"Suicide."
One word the steward had let drop, and it spread all over the ship like wildfire.
But the doctor shook his head at the suggestion the moment he saw the body.
"What is it?" inquired the captain; "don't you think it suicide?"
"No," answered the doctor laconically; "murder."
"Murder!"
"Yes."
"Who occupied the other berth? Where is he? Find him. What? went ashore at Queenstown—don't know whether he came back on tender? Who received the mails? Tell him to come here."
The officer sent for came.
It was in his watch that the tender departed and returned. Had noticed a red-haired man who had come aboard at Liverpool.
"Passenger of this berth was red-haired," interjected the steward.
"Go on," said the captain; "did you see the man come back on the tender? Is he aboard?"
The officer scratched his head and replied:
"Come to think of it, sir, I don't remember that he did come back."
"Are you sure?"
"Well, yes, I am, sir. It was very early morning when we touched, and I noted that only one passenger went on the tender."
"Sure it was the occupant of this berth?"
"Must have been, sir," interrupted the steward, "because when I rapped for letters and telegrams the red-haired man asked whether he could go ashore, and how long he could stop."
"And you——?"
"Told him, sir. I didn't actually see him go, but he was already dressed."
The captain turned to the officer who had received the mails.
"Are you sure the man did not come back on the tender?"
"Yes, sir. Certain, now I come to remember."
"He has escaped, then," said the captain. Then, looking at his watch, he continued: "We are nearly twelve hours out from Queenstown. I shall not put back."
"Gives the murderer a good opportunity of escape, doesn't it?" queried the doctor.
"Yes, yes; I know. But we should be more than a dozen hours getting back with this wind, and the ship would be detained. No, I'll go on. Let the American police investigate it."
"Information ought to be furnished as promptly as possible," said the doctor dubiously.
"That's all very well for you, doctor; but what would they say to me as captain of the ship? We will draw up a full report. Just write down as detailed a description of the escaped man as you can, steward. Bryer, run up to the bridge, and tell the mate to steer for any vessel coming in, and fly a flag that we want to communicate. We'll send the description back. That's the best way out of the difficulty, doctor."
It was not the doctor's duty to dispute the captain's authority.
He may have had his own opinion as to what should be done, but he forbore from expressing it. He had his thoughts, and he had his living to get.
The latter fact often prevents a man's thoughts finding their way to his lips. This is an age of discretion—it often pays better than mere valor.
"Been dead over a dozen hours," he said, after examining the body.
"That seems to confirm the idea of murder and escape at Queenstown."
"Better leave all things as they are for the police to examine, eh?"
"Yes."
Disinfectants were put in the cabin, and the door locked.
At the suggestion of the doctor, the captain affixed seals to a piece of tape fastened to the door and its lintel. The ship steamed on.
Ocean bore a secret on her billowy bosom—it was but one added to the myriads buried in her fathomless depths.
In the sight of the harbor of New York the ship slowed down, and the tender came alongside.
The customs officers and port sanitary authority came aboard.
Soon after the liner was moored at her pier, and in compliance with the signal she had hoisted, the police came on board.
Not a passenger was allowed to land until the officers had thoroughly gone into their characters, and investigated the details which the captain had thoughtfully put on paper.
Every passenger, his address, description, and destination had been listed; the evidence of the second mate, doctor, steward, and purser had been committed to paper and signed.
The two berthed cabin spoke for itself—eloquently.
The passengers were allowed to land at last. There was no reasonable excuse for their further detention.
The crowds waiting on shore had wondered at the delay, but the first man off told the news, and it spread.
The extra editions of the newspapers sold well that evening. It is an ill wind which fails to inflate the circulation of the newspapers.
The people assembled at the pier gradually dispersed, moving away with the friends they had come to meet, until at last only the working staff of boat and shore hands were around.
The public had gone home—all save one member of it, a tall, bony, dressed in country style woman.
She had started from home with whole white cotton gloves on.
As she stood watching the boat now, there was not a whole finger left in one of the gloves—she had nibbled them off in her anxiety.
She attracted the attention of the hands discharging the cargo, and was the object, among themselves, of many humorous remarks.
"Waitin' for some one, missus?" at last one of the men inquired of her.
She was glad. She had been afraid to come forward and make inquiries. Now the spell was broken, she said:
"Yes. Have all the passengers landed?"
"There's one—or two—still aboard," the man answered, grimly.
But the grimness was lost on the woman. She gave a sigh of relief. She had yet to learn that the passengers spoken of by the man had crossed the Stygian Ferry as well as the Atlantic.
"Mebbe one of 'em's the one I've come to meet."
"I hope not."
"Why?"
The man disregarded the question. Something had occurred to him. He inquired:
"What might be the name of the person you've come to meet?"
The woman hesitated a moment, and then answered:
"Depew."
The man suppressed a whistle of astonishment, and repeated the name:
"Depew!"
"Yes; George Depew. Was he aboard, do you know?"
"Wait here a moment, missus—don't go away. I'll go and inquire for you."
He disappeared in the ship. He went to the captain's cabin, and knocked at the door.
The police officers and witnesses were there discussing the murder.
And he went. Touched his cap, then took it off, and spoke:
"Woman outside, sir—been waitin' long time."
"Well?"
"I spoke to her—asked who she was waitin' for."
"Yes."
"Said for Depew—George Depew."
The plain clothes officer was on his feet in a moment inquiring:
"Where is she?"
"On the pier."
"I'll go and see her; come, point her out to me."
They left the cabin. The tall, gaunt woman was standing where the sailor had left her. Thanking the man, the officer went towards her.
"They tell me," he said pleasantly, "that you are waiting for a passenger."
"Yes."
"Perhaps you did not see him land."
"I never took my eyes off the gangway."
"Then you think he is aboard."
"I understood the man to say there were one or two passengers there still."
The detective suppressed a smile at the grim humor of the sailor's remark. They were there still—very still.
"What is the name of the person you were expecting to meet?"
Again there was a slight hesitation before the woman spoke. Then she said:
"Depew."
"George?"
"Yes. Then he is aboard?"
"Well—you—see——"
Then something dawned on, some fear seized the woman. It was in a trembling voice that she inquired:
"You, you are not wearing the ship's uniform. You—you are a policeman?"
"That's so."
"My God! I see. I see why he has not landed. It's all found out—he's in custody."
The detective twiddled the ends of a moustache he had under cultivation.
The case had looked complicated—and he liked complications—indeed, got a living out of them. But this latest phase of the business looked like the envelopment of the puzzle in another one.
"Tell me," she said, "is he aboard?"
"Yes."
"Let me see him."
"Come this way."
As they went below, the detective paused a minute. He inquired:
"Are you any relation of his?"
"His wife."
The detective whistled. Then he said:
"Come in here."
"He is not here?"
"No."
"Take me to him."
"Don't be in a hurry. See here, you'd best prepare yourself for a shock."
"Shock!"
"Your husband came aboard this boat at Liverpool."
"I know that; is he here now?"
"His—his remains are."
"His—his——"
"Now brace up. Take the blow like a—like a real woman."
"G-go on."
"He's lying aboard the ship now."
"Lying!"
"Dead."
"D-dead."
"Here, hold up. There, there, pull yourself together, missus——. Here, drink that——. That's better——. We all have to die, you know, sooner or later——. That's it. Sit there a minute or two. Now, you are going along all right, aren't you?"
"Yes—yes."
"Drop more water? That's it. Now, how do you feel? Well enough to see the body? You'd like to? That's all right, then. Must be identified, you know. Just sit here a minute, and I'll arrange things for you."
He went out, leaving the woman staring stonily at the roof of the saloon. To a subordinate on duty he said:
"Open that cabin, Mace. Tuck a towel round the neck so the wound don't show. Woman's his wife. I haven't told her yet he's been murdered. Time for that after she identifies him. Stand by."
He returned to the saloon in which he had left the woman.
"Now, Mrs. Depew."
The woman started.
"Just lean on my arm, ma'am, and brace yourself up. This way. Mind the step. That's it. In here. There you are, ma'am. There's the body."
The woman moaned, braced herself up as she had been told to, and went forward.
The moment her eyes rested on the dead body she screamed:
"That!"
She flung up her arms, and burst into hysterical laughter, which ended in a wail as she sank, a nerveless heap, in the officer's arms.
"Too much for her, Mace. Here, give me a hand out with her. That's it. Take her on deck, the air will bring her to. That's it. Fetch a pillow for her head. Heart's beating, and she's breathing all right—it's only a faint. The shock was too great for her."
It was. She had expected to see in the dead man her husband.
It was an expectation she had not realized.
The face of the dead man was utterly unknown to her.