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  Dunning's suspense as he waited on the Groydon platform I need not attempt to describe. His sense of danger during the last days had only been sharpened by the fact that the cloud about him had perceptibly been lighter; but relief was an ominous symptom, and, if Karswell eluded him now, hope was gone: and there were so many chances of that. The rumour of the journey might be itself a device. The twenty minutes in which he paced the platform and persecuted every porter with inquiries as to the boat train were as bitter as any he had spent. Still, the train came, and Harrington was at the window. It was important, of course, that there should be no recognition: so Dunning got in at the farther end of the corridor carriage, and only gradually made his way to the compartment where Harrington and Karswell were. He was pleased, on the whole, to see that the train was far from full.

  Karswell was on the alert, but gave no sign of recognition. Dunning took the seat not immediately facing him, and attempted, vainly at first, then with increasing command of his faculties, to reckon the possibilities of making the desired transfer. Opposite to Karswell, and next to Dunning, was a heap of Karswell's coats on the seat. It would be of no use to slip the paper into these-he would not be safe, or would not feel so, unless in some way it could be proffered by him and accepted by the other. There was a handbag, open, and with papers in it. Could he manage to conceal this (so that perhaps Karswell might leave the carriage without it), and then find and give it to him? This was the plan that suggested itself. If he could only have counselled with Harrington! but that could not be. The minutes went on. More than once Karswell rose and went out into the corridor. The second time Dunning was on the point of attempting to make the bag fall off the seat, but he caught Harrington's eye, and read in it a warning.

  Karswell, from the corridor, was watching: probably to see if the two men recognized each other. He returned, but was evidently restless: and, when he rose the third time, hope dawned, for something did slip off his seat and fall with hardly a sound to the floor. Karswell went out once more, and passed out of range of the corridor window. Dunning picked up what had fallen, and saw that the key was in his hands in the form of one of Cook's ticket-cases, with tickets in it. These cases have a pocket in the cover, and within very few seconds the paper of which we have heard was in the pocket of this one. To make the operation more secure, Harrington stood in the doorway of the compartment and fiddled with the blind. It was done, and done at the right time, for the train was now slowing down towards Dover.

  In a moment more Karswell re-entered the compartment. As he did so, Dunning, managing, he knew not how, to suppress the tremble in his voice, handed him the ticket-case, saying, 'May I give you this, sir? I believe it is yours.' After a brief glance at the ticket inside, Karswell uttered the hoped-for response, 'Yes, it is; much obliged to you, sir,' and he placed it in his breast pocket.

  Even in the few moments that remained-moments of tense anxiety, for they knew not to what a premature finding of the paper might lead-both men noticed that the carriage seemed to darken about them and to grow warmer; that Karswell was fidgety and oppressed; that he drew the heap of loose coats near to him and cast it back as if it repelled him; and that he then sat upright and glanced anxiously at both. They, with sickening anxiety, busied themselves in collecting their belongings; but they both thought that Karswell was on the point of speaking when the train stopped at Dover Town. It was natural that in the short space between town and pier they should both go into the corridor.

  At the pier they got out, but so empty was the train that they were forced to linger on the platform until Karswell should have passed ahead of them with his porter on the way to the boat, and only then was it safe for them to exchange a pressure of the hand and a word of concentrated congratulation. The effect upon Dunning was to make him almost faint. Harrington made him lean up against the wall, while he himself went forward a few yards within sight of the gangway to the boat, at which Karswell had now arrived. The man at the head of it examined his ticket, and, laden with coats he passed down into the boat. Suddenly the official called after him, 'You, sir, beg pardon, did the other gentleman show his ticket?' 'What the devil do you mean by the other gentleman?' Karswell's snarling voice called back from the deck. The man bent over and looked at him. 'The devil? Well, I don't know, I'm sure,' Harrington heard him say to himself, and then aloud, 'My mistake, sir; must have been your rugs! ask your pardon.' And then, to a subordinate near him, ''Ad he got a dog with him, or what? Funny thing: I could 'a' swore 'e wasn't alone. Well, whatever it was, they'll 'ave to see to it aboard. She's off now. Another week and we shall be gettin' the 'oliday customers.' In five minutes more there was nothing but the lessening lights of the boat, the long line of the Dover lamps, the night breeze, and the moon.

  Long and long the two sat in their room at the 'Lord Warden'. In spite of the removal of their greatest anxiety, they were oppressed with a doubt, not of the lightest. Had they been justified in sending a man to his death, as they believed they had? Ought they not to warn him, at least? 'No,' said Harrington; 'if he is the murderer I think him, we have done no more than is just. Still, if you think it better-but how and where can you warn him?' 'He was booked to Abbeville only,' said Dunning. 'I saw that. If I wired to the hotels there in Joanne's Guide, "Examine your ticket-case, Dunning," I should feel happier. This is the 21st: he will have a day. But I am afraid he has gone into the dark.' So telegrams were left at the hotel office.

  It is not clear whether these reached their destination, or whether, if they did, they were understood. All that is known is that, on the afternoon of the 23rd, an English traveller, examining the front of St Wulfram's Church at Abbeville, then under extensive repair, was struck on the head and instantly killed by a stone falling from the scaffold erected round the north-western tower, there being, as was clearly proved, no workman on the scaffold at that moment: and the traveller's papers identified him as Mr Karswell.

  Only one detail shall be added. At Karswell's sale a set of Bewick, sold with all faults, was acquired by Harrington. The page with the woodcut of the traveller and the demon was, as he had expected, mutilated. Also, after a judicious interval, Harrington repeated to Dunning something of what he had heard his brother say in his sleep: but it was not long before Dunning stopped him.

  WILLIAM HOPE HODGSON

  THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT

  It was a dark, starless night. We were becalmed in the Northern Pacific. Our exact position I do not know; for the sun had been hidden during the course of a weary, breathless week, by a thin haze which had seemed to float above us, about the height of our mastheads, at whiles descending and shrouding the surrounding sea.

  With there being no wind, we had steadied the tiller, and I was the only man on deck. The crew, consisting of two men and a boy, were sleeping forrard in their den; while Will-my friend, and the master of our little craft-was aft in his bunk on the port side of the little cabin.

  Suddenly, from out of the surrounding darkness, there came a hail:

  "Schooner, ahoy!"

  The cry was so unexpected that I gave no immediate answer, because of my surprise.

  It came again-a voice curiously throaty and inhuman, calling from somewhere upon the dark sea away on our port broadside:

  "Schooner, ahoy!"

  "Hullo!" I sung out, having gathered my wits somewhat. "What are you? What do you want?"

  "You need not be afraid," answered the queer voice, having probably noticed some trace of confusion in my tone. "I am only an old man."

  The pause sounded oddly; but it was only afterwards that it came back to me with any significance.

  "Why don't you come alongside, then?" I queried somewhat snappishly; for I liked not his hinting at my having been a trifle shaken.

  "I-I-can't. It wouldn't be safe. I-" The voice broke off, and there was silence.

  "What do you mean?" I asked, growing more and more astonished. "Why not safe? Where are you?"

  I listened for a moment; but there came n
o answer. And then, a sudden indefinite suspicion, of I knew not what, coming to me, I stepped swiftly to the binnacle, and took out the lighted lamp. At the same time, I knocked on the deck with my heel to waken Will. Then I was back at the side, throwing the yellow funnel of light out into the silent immensity beyond our rail. As I did so, I heard a slight, muffled cry, and then the sound of a splash as though someone had dipped oars abruptly. Yet I cannot say that I saw anything with certainty; save, it seemed to me, that with the first flash of the light, there had been something upon the waters, where now there was nothing.

  "Hullo, there!" I called. "What foolery is this!"

  But there came only the indistinct sounds of a boat being pulled away into the night.

  Then I heard Will's voice, from the direction of the after scuttle:

  "What's up, George?"

  "Come here, Will!" I said.

  "What is it?" he asked, coming across the deck.

  I told him the queer thing which had happened. He put several questions; then, after a moment's silence, he raised his hands to his lips, and hailed:

  "Boat, ahoy!"

  From a long distance away there came back to us a faint reply, and my companion repeated his call. Presently, after a short period of silence, there grew on our hearing the muffled sound of oars; at which Will hailed again.

  This time there was a reply:

  "Put away the light."

  "I'm damned if I will," I muttered; but Will told me to do as the voice bade, and I shoved it down under the bulwarks.

  "Come nearer," he said, and the oar-strokes continued. Then, when apparently some half-dozen fathoms distant, they again ceased.

  "Come alongside," exclaimed Will. "There's nothing to be frightened of aboard here!"

  "Promise that you will not show the light?"

  "What's to do with you," I burst out, "that you're so infernally afraid of the light?"

  "Because-" began the voice, and stopped short.

  "Because what?" I asked quickly.

  Will put his hand on my shoulder.

  "Shut up a minute, old man," he said, in a low voice. "Let me tackle him."

  He leant more over the rail.

  "See here, Mister," he said, "this is a pretty queer business, you coming upon us like this, right out in the middle of the blessed Pacific. How are we to know what sort of a hanky-panky trick you're up to? You say there's only one of you. How are we to know, unless we get a squint at you-eh? What's your objection to the light, anyway?"

  As he finished, I heard the noise of the oars again, and then the voice came; but now from a greater distance, and sounding extremely hopeless and pathetic.

  "I am sorry-sorry! I would not have troubled you, only I am hungry, and-so is she."

  The voice died away, and the sound of the oars, dipping irregularly, was borne to us.

  "Stop!" sung out Will. "I don't want to drive you away. Come back! We'll keep the light hidden, if you don't like it."

  He turned to me:

  "It's a damned queer rig, this; but I think there's nothing to be afraid of?"

  There was a question in his tone, and I replied.

  "No, I think the poor devil's been wrecked around here, and gone crazy."

  The sound of the oars drew nearer.

  "Shove that lamp back in the binnacle," said Will; then he leaned over the rail and listened. I replaced the lamp, and came back to his side. The dipping of the oars ceased some dozen yards distant.

  "Won't you come alongside now?" asked Will in an even voice. "I have had the lamp put back in the binnacle."

  "I-I cannot," replied the voice. "I dare not come nearer. I dare not even pay you for the-the provisions."

  "That's all right," said Will, and hesitated. "You're welcome to as much grub as you can take-" Again he hesitated.

  "You are very good," exclaimed the voice. "May God, Who understands everything, reward you-" It broke off huskily.

  "The-the lady?" said Will abruptly. "Is she-"

  "I have left her behind upon the island," came the voice.

  "What island?" I cut in.

  "I know not its name," returned the voice. "I would to God -!" it began, and checked itself as suddenly.

  "Could we not send a boat for her?" asked Will at this point.

  "No!" said the voice, with extraordinary emphasis. "My God! No!" There was a moment's pause; then it added, in a tone which seemed a merited reproach:

  "It was because of our want I ventured-because her agony tortured me."

  "I am a forgetful brute," exclaimed Will. "Just wait a minute, whoever you are, and I will bring you up something at once."

  In a couple of minutes he was back again, and his arms were full of various edibles. He paused at the rail.

  "Can't you come alongside for them?" he asked.

  "No-I DARE NOT," replied the voice, and it seemed to me that in its tones I detected a note of stifled craving-as though the owner hushed a mortal desire. It came to me then in a flash, that the poor old creature out there in the darkness, was SUFFERING for actual need of that which Will held in his arms; and yet, because of some unintelligible dread, refraining from dashing to the side of our little schooner, and receiving it. And with the lightning-like conviction, there came the knowledge that the Invisible was not mad; but sanely facing some intolerable horror.

  "Damn it, Will!" I said, full of many feelings, over which predominated a vast sympathy. "Get a box. We must float off the stuff to him in it."

  This we did-propelling it away from the vessel, out into the darkness, by means of a boathook. In a minute, a slight cry from the Invisible came to us, and we knew that he had secured the box.

  A little later, he called out a farewell to us, and so heartful a blessing, that I am sure we were the better for it. Then, without more ado, we heard the ply of oars across the darkness.

  "Pretty soon off," remarked Will, with perhaps just a little sense of injury.

  "Wait," I replied. "I think somehow he'll come back. He must have been badly needing that food."

  "And the lady," said Will. For a moment he was silent; then he continued:

  "It's the queerest thing ever I've tumbled across, since I've been fishing."

  "Yes," I said, and fell to pondering.

  And so the time slipped away-an hour, another, and still Will stayed with me; for the queer adventure had knocked all desire for sleep out of him.

  The third hour was three parts through, when we heard again the sound of oars across the silent ocean.

  "Listen!" said Will, a low note of excitement in his voice.

  "He's coming, just as I thought," I muttered.

  The dipping of the oars grew nearer, and I noted that the strokes were firmer and longer. The food had been needed.

  They came to a stop a little distance off the broadside, and the queer voice came again to us through the darkness:

  "Schooner, ahoy!"

  "That you?" asked Will.

  "Yes," replied the voice. "I left you suddenly; but-but there was great need."

  "The lady?" questioned Will.

  "The-lady is grateful now on earth. She will be more grateful soon in-in heaven."

  Will began to make some reply, in a puzzled voice; but became confused, and broke off short. I said nothing. I was wondering at the curious pauses, and, apart from my wonder, I was full of a great sympathy.

  The voice continued:

  "We-she and I, have talked, as we shared the result of God's tenderness and yours-"

  Will interposed; but without coherence.

  "I beg of you not to-to belittle your deed of Christian charity this night," said the voice. "Be sure that it has not escaped His notice."

  It stopped, and there was a full minute's silence. Then it came again:

  "We have spoken together upon that which-which has befallen us. We had thought to go out, without telling any, of the terror which has come into our-lives. She is with me in believing that to-night's happenings are under a special r
uling, and that it is God's wish that we should tell to you all that we have suffered since-since-"

  "Yes?" said Will softly.

  "Since the sinking of the Albatross."

  "Ah!" I exclaimed involuntarily. "She left Newcastle for 'Frisco some six months ago, and hasn't been heard of since."

  "Yes," answered the voice. "But some few degrees to the North of the line she was caught in a terrible storm, and dismasted. When the day came, it was found that she was leaking badly, and, presently, it falling to a calm, the sailors took to the boats, leaving-leaving a young lady-my fiancйe-and myself upon the wreck.

  "We were below, gathering together a few of our belongings, when they left. They were entirely callous, through fear, and when we came up upon the deck, we saw them only as small shapes afar off upon the horizon. Yet we did not despair, but set to work and constructed a small raft. Upon this we put such few matters as it would hold including a quantity of water and some ship's biscuit. Then, the vessel being very deep in the water, we got ourselves on to the raft, and pushed off.

  "It was later, when I observed that we seemed to be in the way of some tide or current, which bore us from the ship at an angle; so that in the course of three hours, by my watch, her hull became invisible to our sight, her broken masts remaining in view for a somewhat longer period. Then, towards evening, it grew misty, and so through the night. The next day we were still encompassed by the mist, the weather remaining quiet.

  "For four days we drifted through this strange haze, until, on the evening of the fourth day, there grew upon our ears the murmur of breakers at a distance. Gradually it became plainer, and, somewhat after midnight, it appeared to sound upon either hand at no very great space. The raft was raised upon a swell several times, and then we were in smooth water, and the noise of the breakers was behind.