“The picture disappears,” said Mr. Silver. “Ah! I see; I see. A ship in a gale at sea. It is the _North Star;_ it is sinking. The ill-shaped man sheds tears and loses his head. I cannot discover the name of this man.” Mr. Boxer, who had been several times on the point of interrupting, cleared his throat and endeavoured to look unconcerned. “The ship sinks,” continued the astrologer, in thrilling tones. “Ah! what is this? a piece of wreckage with a monkey clinging to it? No, no-o. The ill-shaped man again. Dear me!” [Illustration] His listeners sat spellbound. Only the laboured and intense breathing of Mr. Boxer broke the silence. “He is alone on the boundless sea,” pursued the seer; “night falls. Day breaks, and a canoe propelled by a slender and pretty but dusky maiden approaches the castaway. She assists him into the canoe and his head sinks on her lap, as with vigorous strokes of her paddle she propels the canoe toward a small island fringed with palm trees.” “Here, look ’ere—” began the overwrought Mr. Boxer. “_H’sh, h’sh!_” ejaculated the keenly interested Mr. Thompson. “W’y don’t you keep quiet?” “The picture fades,” continued the old man. “I see another: a native wedding. It is the dusky maiden and the man she rescued. Ah! the wedding is interrupted; a young man, a native, breaks into the group. He has a long knife in his hand. He springs upon the ill-shaped man and wounds him in the head.” Involuntarily Mr. Boxer’s hand went up to his honourable scar, and the heads of the others swung round to gaze at it. Mrs. Boxer’s face was terrible in its expression, but Mrs. Gimpson’s bore the look of sad and patient triumph of one who knew men and could not be surprised at anything they do. “The scene vanishes,” resumed the monotonous voice, “and another one forms. The same man stands on the deck of a small ship. The name on the stern is the _Peer_—no, _Paris_—no, no, no, _Pearl_. It fades from the shore where the dusky maiden stands with hands stretched out imploringly. The ill-shaped man smiles and takes the portrait of the young and beautiful girl from his pocket.” “Look ’ere,” said the infuriated Mr. Boxer, “I think we’ve ’ad about enough of this rubbish. I have—more than enough.” “I don’t wonder at it,” said his wife, trembling furiously. “You can go if you like. I’m going to stay and hear all that there is to hear.” “You sit quiet,” urged the intensely interested Mr. Thompson. “He ain’t said it’s you. There’s more than one misshaped man in the world, I s’pose?” “I see an ocean liner,” said the seer, who had appeared to be in a trance state during this colloquy. “She is sailing for England from Australia. I see the name distinctly: the _Marston Towers_. The same man is on board of her. The ship arrives at London. The scene closes; another one forms. The ill-shaped man is sitting with a woman with a beautiful face—not the same as the photograph.”