“I have never been in America.” “Ah! I see so many faces, of course, that I sometimes fancy I know a man when I don’t. Well, I hope you will have a pleasant voyage, sir.” “Thank you.” No. 18 was not a popular passenger. People seemed instinctively to shrink from him, although it must be admitted that he made no advances. All went well until the _Gibrontus_ was about half-way over. One forenoon the chief officer entered the captain’s room with a pale face, and, shutting the door after him, said— “I am very sorry to have to report, sir, that one of the passengers has fallen into the hold.” “Good heavens!” cried the captain. “Is he hurt?” “He is killed, sir.” The captain stared aghast at his subordinate. “How did it happen? I gave the strictest orders those places were on no account to be left unguarded.” Although the company had held to Mrs. Keeling that the captain was not to blame, their talk with that gentleman was of an entirely different tone. “That is the strange part of it, sir. The hatch has not been opened this voyage, sir, and was securely bolted down.” “Nonsense! Nobody will believe such a story! Some one has been careless! Ask the purser to come here, please.” When the purser saw the body, he recollected, and came as near fainting as a purser can. They dropped Keeling overboard in the night, and the whole affair was managed so quietly that nobody suspected anything, and, what is the most incredible thing in this story, the New York papers did not have a word about it. What the Liverpool office said about the matter nobody knows, but it must have stirred up something like a breeze in that strictly business locality. It is likely they pooh-poohed the whole affair, for, strange to say, when the purser tried to corroborate the story with the dead man’s ticket the document was nowhere to be found. The _Gibrontus_ started out on her next voyage from Liverpool with all her colours flying, but some of her officers had a vague feeling of unrest within them which reminded them of the time they first sailed on the heaving seas. The purser was seated in his room, busy, as pursers always are at the beginning of a voyage, when there was a rap at the door. “Come in!” shouted the important official, and there entered unto him a stranger, who said—“Are you the purser?” “Yes, sir. What can I do for you?” “I have room No. 18.” “What!” cried the purser, with a gasp, almost jumping from his chair. Then he looked at the robust man before him, and sank back with a sigh of relief. It was not Keeling. “I have room No. 18,” continued the passenger, “and the arrangement I made with your people in Liverpool was that I was to have the room to myself. I do a great deal of shipping over your—” “Yes, my dear sir,” said the purser, after having looked rapidly over his list, “you have No. 18 to yourself.”