His amusement turned to amazement; he stared at me fixedly, saying nothing. “You will tell me after a while,” I continued; “I suppose you will tell me after a while.” A moment later I asked: “What ship is this?” Doyle stared again. “The steamer _City of Prague_, bound from Liverpool to New York, three weeks out with a broken shaft. Principal passenger, Mr. Gordon Doyle; ditto lunatic, Mr. William Jarrett. These two distinguished travelers embarked together, but they are about to part, it being the resolute intention of the former to pitch the latter overboard.” I sat bolt upright. “Do you mean to say that I have been for three weeks a passenger on this steamer?” “Yes, pretty nearly; this is the 3d of July.” “Have I been ill?” “Right as a trivet all the time, and punctual at your meals.” “My God! Doyle, there is some mystery here; do have the goodness to be serious. Was I not rescued from the wreck of the ship _Morrow_?” Doyle changed color, and approaching me, laid his fingers on my wrist. A moment later, “What do you know of Janette Harford?” he asked very calmly. “First tell me what _you_ know of her?” Mr. Doyle gazed at me for some moments as if thinking what to do, then seating himself again on the couch, said: “Why should I not? I am engaged to marry Janette Harford, whom I met a year ago in London. Her family, one of the wealthiest in Devonshire, cut up rough about it, and we eloped—are eloping rather, for on the day that you and I walked to the landing stage to go aboard this steamer she and her faithful servant, a negress, passed us, driving to the ship _Morrow_. She would not consent to go in the same vessel with me, and it had been deemed best that she take a sailing vessel in order to avoid observation and lessen the risk of detection. I am now alarmed lest this cursed breaking of our machinery may detain us so long that the _Morrow_ will get to New York before us, and the poor girl will not know where to go.” I lay still in my berth—so still I hardly breathed. But the subject was evidently not displeasing to Doyle, and after a short pause he resumed: “By the way, she is only an adopted daughter of the Harfords. Her mother was killed at their place by being thrown from a horse while hunting, and her father, mad with grief, made away with himself the same day. No one ever claimed the child, and after a reasonable time they adopted her. She has grown up in the belief that she is their daughter.” “Doyle, what book are you reading?” “Oh, it’s called ‘Denneker’s Meditations.’ It’s a rum lot, Janette gave it to me; she happened to have two copies. Want to see it?” He tossed me the volume, which opened as it fell. On one of the exposed pages was a marked passage: