Anthony stood quite still for a long time; his eyes never moved from the painted name; his mind carried a picture of the vessel to which the boat had belonged. The _Rufus Stevens_! A stout, good ship! The hopes that had been put in her!--hopes as precious as the stuffs she stowed! And now she was a broken ruin somewhere in the sea's depths, and the hopes were broken, too, in the ruined mind of her owner. A plunging, bold ship! And she would have come safe home if the dirty hand of villainy had not been put upon her. A broad-sailed ship. Christ! it was a shame to think of her, used like that; and no mind or voice to save her. "I'd give my arm to have stood on her deck when her peril came upon her," said Anthony, all his muscles tight. "The rats! They sank her in the sea, and brought living death to as kindly a man as ever God made!" That night Anthony did not sleep well, for the thought of the lost ship troubled him gravely; so he arose and dressed and stepped out into the quiet of the summer night. His eyes went seaward, for something there caught his attention; it was a light at no great distance--intermittent, winking, sometimes with long pauses between, sometimes rapid, considered, carrying an undoubted meaning. Then the night grew dark and blank; and, though he watched a long time, Anthony saw the light no more. He tramped about until weariness urged him back to bed, and this time he slept with no disturbing thoughts breaking in upon him. Next morning he was early upon the beach and looking sharply about for any sign that might give a reason for the light that had come winking offshore. He saw nothing until he reached the spot where the stove long-boat of the _Rufus Stevens_ protruded from the sands. All about her were the imprints of men's feet, which the making tide had already begun to wash away. Anthony studied them, his eyes intent under frowning brows; and then, as he lifted his head, he saw a vessel riding upon the horizon-line. She was a brig; and one of her topsails glinted white in the morning sun. XXXVI It so chanced that Tom Horn did not appear at Christopher Dent's for some nights; and so Mademoiselle Lafargue, with brisk little shoes clicking upon the floor, and silken gloves upon her hands, and a lace shawl about her head, came into the apothecary's shop in the twilight before he had kindled his lamps. She forthwith demanded that he keep his promise and go with her to Tom Horn's lodgings, that she might speak with the odd clerk in the matter he had dwelt so earnestly upon some nights before.