Sir Mortimer was at home; he was in mourning. The sight of his sombre figure and ashen countenance, of resigned but settled sorrow, startled and even shocked me. It was like a confirmation of fear, an assurance that Marie was dead and that hope must end. My visit was unexpected, and whilst he welcomed me he held my hand and stood looking at me in a posture of eager, sorrowful inquiry. Presently, when we were seated, I pulled out the paper and pointed to the story of the discovery. He was a high-bred, fine-looking old gentleman, and I see him now as he sat holding his glasses to his eyes, the paper trembling in his hand, and his face slowly taking what the Scotch call a 'raised' look as he read. He turned, dropping his glasses and letting the paper sink to his knee, and said in a voice a little above a whisper: 'What is this?' 'What do you think?' 'You don't believe it was Marie?' he said. 'If we are to think _that_, she is dead to us!' I exclaimed. 'But if it was not Marie, whose was the body that was picked up by the schooner close to the spot where the hull had been abandoned?' He stared at me, drew a deep breath, and referred again to the paper. 'Have you seen that seaman--the boatswain--I forget his name--upon this?' he asked. 'Yes; and the two owners. But what can their opinion be worth? How could their ideas help us, Sir Mortimer? Read the description of that body, the dark amber hair, the looks which in life must have been those of a refined----' I faltered, controlled myself, and went on: 'I have discovered,' and I named the shop where I had obtained the information, 'that Marie's outfit included such another jacket as the body had on. Can you remember if she took a serge dress with her?' 'Two or three,' he answered quickly. 'They were of dark blue. Two she had. A third was added at Mrs. Burke's suggestion. What was the colour of the dress described here?' He looked; but no colour was named. I got up and paced about the room. 'I have made up my mind,' I exclaimed. 'I will go to the Cape. If it be Marie--but I must make sure at all costs. The suspense, the waiting, the not knowing whether she lies dead at Cape Town, whether she has gone down in the hull, whether she has been rescued, carried to a distant port, and is lying ill, so that months might elapse before we should get news of her--all this I could not bear! I am already half mad with the grief of it. I will go to Cape Town,' I cried, 'and see with my own eyes, and settle expectation, so far as that body is concerned, one way or another, for ever.' CHAPTER XXI MR. MOORE SAILS