The old man, knowing his son’s temper, did as he was told, and William began to potter aimlessly about the room. He was certainly trembling very much, and was almost overcome with a nervousness for which he himself could not account. For he was no coward. To get possession of a prize on the high seas he would have faced a storm which might well make brave men tremble, not to mention that he knew that he had on more than one occasion humanely hastened the end of shipwrecked sailors, whom he had found and pillaged on the shore. After these acts he had been able to sleep the sleep of virtue without being haunted by dead men’s eyes. But now the case was different. He had not to deal with a victim without friends, a man whose body, described as that of a “shipwrecked mariner,” could be buried and forgotten without any more ado. In all probability there would this time be a hue and cry, and William Jones trembled lest his share in the ghastly business might ultimately be discovered. True, he was not actually the culprit, and so, even at the worst, he might escape the gallows--but to a man of his sensitive and affectionate nature the thought of transportation was not pleasant. It was this that made him nervous--this that made him start and tremble at every sound. Presently a thought struck him. “Where’s Matt?” he asked. “Don’t know, William, dear; she ain’t been here for hours and hours. Maybe she’s on the shore.” “Maybe she is. I’ll go and have a look,” returned William. It must not be supposed for a moment that William Jones had become afflicted with a sudden and tender interest in Matt--he merely wanted to get quit of the cabin, that was all, and he saw in this a reasonable excuse for walking out alone. He accordingly made his escape, and went wandering off along the shore. It was ten o’clock when he returned; he was still pale, and drenched to the skin. The old man was dozing beside the fire, and alone. “Where’s Matt?” asked William again. “Ain’t you seen her, William, dear? Well, she ain’t here.” William Jones did look a little uneasy this time, and it is but due to him to confess that his uneasiness was caused by Matt’s prolonged absence. Erratic as she was in her movements, she had not been accustomed to staying out so late, especially on a night when the rain was pouring, and not a glimmer of star or moon was to be seen. “Wonder what she’s doin’ of?” said William; “suppose I’d best wait up for her.. Here, old man, you go to bed, d’ye: hear--_you_ ain’t wanted anyhow.” The old man accordingly went to bed, and William sat up to await Matt’s return. He sat beside the hearth, looked into the smouldering fire, and listened to the rain as it poured down steadily upon the roof. Occasionally he got up, and went to the door; he could see nothing, but he heard the patter of the falling rain, and the low dreary moan of the troubled sea.