“Because”--here he spoke faintly, as if sudden fear had produced additional weakness--“because I had rather die a thousand deaths than meet her now; because she hates me. I must begin the world again. You have saved my life against my will: I demand that you give that life its only chance of happiness.” As his words came to me, I remembered with a start the dead lascar, and, leading Hungerford to my cabin, I pointed to the body, and whispered that the sailor’s death was only known to me. “Then this is the corpse of Boyd Madras, and we’ll bury it for him,” he said with quick bluntness. “Do not report this death to Captain Ascott--he would only raise objections to the idea. This lascar was in my watch. It will be supposed he fell overboard during the accident to the boat. Perhaps some day the funeral of this nigger will be a sensation and surprise to her blessed ladyship on deck.” I suggested that it seemed underhand and unprofessional, but the entreating words of the resuscitated man in the next room conquered my objections. It was arranged that Madras should remain in the present cabin, of which I had a key, until we reached Aden; then he should, by Hungerford’s aid, disappear. We were conspirators, but we meant harm to nobody. I covered up the face of the dead lascar and wrapped round him the scarlet and gold cloth that Madras had worn. Then I got a sailor, who supposed Boyd Madras was before him, and the body was soon sewed in its shotted shroud and carried to where Stone the quartermaster lay. At this day I cannot suppose I would do these things, but then it seemed right to do as Madras wished: he was, under a new name, to begin life afresh. After giving directions for the disposition of the bodies, I went on deck. Mrs. Falchion was still there. Some one said to her: “Did you know the man who committed suicide?” “He was introduced to me last night by Dr. Marmion,” she replied, and she shuddered again, though her face showed no remarkable emotion. She had had a shock to the senses, not to the heart. When I came to her on the deck, Justine was saying to her: “Madame, you should not have come. You should not see such painful things when you are not well.” She did not reply to this. She looked up at me and said: “A strange whim, to die in those fanciful rags. It is dreadful to see; but he had the courage.” I replied: “They have as much courage who make men do such things and then live on.” Then I told her briefly that I held the packet for her, that I guessed what was in it, and that I would hand it to her later. I also said that he had written to me the record of last night’s meeting with her, and that he had left a letter which was to be made public. As I said these things we were walking the decks, and, because eyes were on both of us, I tried to show nothing more unusual in manner than the bare tragedy might account for. “Well,” she said, with a curious coldness, “what use shall you make of your special knowledge?”