“I can see by your face you don’t approve. But, my dear boy, I simply must. If anything can prove that ours is nothing but an ordinary friendship, this will. I want you to be particularly careful how you phrase it. Let me see--oh yes, put it this way: ‘Mrs. Henry Breese, Sr., announced that Mr. Guy Thomas had been invited to accompany her and her children to Havana. Mrs. Breese said that she refused to take seriously the gossip which had been proven false in court.’ Is that all right?” I indicated that it wasn’t. I pointed out that the most dignified thing she could do would be to sail away in her yacht with no one but her two children as guests, and the less said about anyone else the better. “But I’ve already invited Guy!” she wailed. “And I couldn’t leave him behind now. Anyway, I don’t want to. I like Guy. I’m very fond of Guy. Let them talk if they want to.” It seemed to me then that Mrs. Breese wanted them to talk. If any explanation is necessary for her, it lies, I think, in the fact that by temperament if not by ability she belonged to the stage. Whatever public exhibition her social position afforded her had not satisfied her through the years. Her trial had given her the attention she hungered for, and now she would never be content unless she could remain the center of discussion. So, despite my objections, Mr. Thomas was duly announced as one of the guests and the next morning the newspapers carried non-committal and carefully-worded stories of the fact. Before we sailed, at Mrs. Breese’s request, I summoned the photographers. Mrs. Breese posed alone. Then with her son, Henry Jr., then with the Countess von Giering-Trelovitch (Mrs. Breese said gaily: “Don’t forget the hyphen!”). Then another pose with both children. There was one with Gordon Rice, with my amazing employer looking up at him with an expression that was meant to convey faith and friendly affection. Over-riding my guarded protests, she laughingly put her arm on Guy Thomas’ shoulder and posed with that vindicated co-respondent. There followed a picture with the Captain of her yacht, and for comic relief one with a picturesque sailor, displaying huge tattooed arms. I was the only one that escaped. When the photographers had left, Mrs. Breese went immediately to her cabin. She was tired. We sailed one hour later. CHAPTER II MAN OVERBOARD I find upon refreshing my memory that the tragedy really had its beginning on the yacht _Mary Rose_, although no one was aware of it at the time. But the diabolical forces that created it were present and at work then, and to give you a proper understanding of its elements, I must proceed chronologically, from the time the _Mary Rose_ made its graceful exit out of the New York harbor.