The two young men descended to the deck below. They were berthed in the saloon under the poop, but they took their meals in the charthouse immediately beneath the bridge, in company with the skipper who slept there. In addition to meal-times, the charthouse was a convenient refuge from the weather common to all of them. It was their objective now, and, just dodging a flying sea that fell with a heavy far-scattered splash upon the deck, they flung themselves inside and shut the door. Then, removing and hanging up their dripping oilskins, they slid round to a final seat upon the leather-covered lockers which filled the space between two sides of the walls and the screwed-down centre table. “Filthy weather!” said Jensen, producing pipe and tobacco-pouch. “But we ought to get there to-night. We’re changing course now to the north-west. Feel it?” In effect, even as he spoke the _Upsal_ swung round to starboard. A long lurching roll substituted itself for the corkscrew plunges which had been the predominant motion, and the spray flung itself viciously at the port side of the ship to the exclusion of the other. Jensen, having lit his pipe, produced a type-written sheet of paper from his pocket. It was a list of ships, followed by indications of latitude, longitude, and other particulars. “No. 1--_Gloucester City_, 7,500 tons, Latitude 50 degrees 55 minutes North, Longitude 9 degrees 14 minutes West, 60 fathoms, torpedoed 20th September, 1918,” he read out. “Get the chart, Lyngstrand, and let us prick down its exact position.” His fair-haired junior obediently spread out a chart of the exit to the English Channel upon the table. “20th of September!” he said, reflectively. “That’s curious, Jensen! Exactly a year ago to-day!” “Coincidences must happen sometimes,” replied Jensen with the superior indifference of three or four years’ seniority. “I see nothing remarkable in it.” “It just struck me,” said Lyngstrand, apologetically. “No--I suppose there’s nothing remarkable in it--it might just as well have been any other day.” Jensen threw a cursory glance at the chart. “You’ve brought the wrong one,” he said, snappily. “This doesn’t go far enough north. Look in the drawer there--there must be another one.” “It is up in the wheelhouse, I think, Jensen,” demurred the young man, mildly. “Yes--I know--but old Horst is certain to have a duplicate. Look in the drawer and see!” replied Jensen, with an impatience invited by the docility of his junior. Lyngstrand obeyed, rummaging among a number of charts in the drawer of the locker under Captain Horst’s bunk. “Here we are!” he cried at last, unrolling one of them. “This is a special one, evidently! Someone has marked it all over with red ink.” Jensen snatched it from him, spread it out. In fact, as Lyngstrand said, it was marked in many places with little red-ink crosses, and under each was a date. Jensen ran his finger across it, stopped just off the south coast of Ireland.