There was no further conversation during the meal. The afternoon was spent by the two young men, in company with the half-dozen divers under their orders, in overhauling the diving-dresses, air-pumps, etc., which might be required on the morrow. The gale had obviously blown itself out. The western sky had cleared, the rain had ceased, the wave-tops were no longer torn in flying spume, there was less violence in the rolling surges in whose trough they wallowed. When, a little after four bells, they were summoned to tea, the sun was setting in a golden splendour that promised a peaceful dawn. Excited by the prospect of the next day’s work, the two young men forgot their suspicions of Captain Horst, could talk of nothing but their plans for diving despite the after-swell of the gale which would surely still be running. The captain listened to their impatience with the ghost of a grim smile, but volunteered no part in the conversation. “Do you propose to keep under way all night, Captain Horst?” enquired Jensen. “No,” he replied. “By my dead reckoning we ought to be in the vicinity of the wreck at about eight bells to-night. I shall anchor then if the glass is still rising. To-morrow we will take an observation and get as close as we can to the position of the _Gloucester City_--presuming that you have it correctly stated.” His tone was perfectly indifferent, but Lyngstrand thought suddenly of that chart with the little red crosses--and particularly that cross on their indicated spot, 50° 55´´ N., 9° 14´´ W, with the fatal date of exactly a year ago--20/9/18. Surely it could not be mere coincidence! He thrilled suddenly with a dramatic perception. If--if it were so--if the man so calmly smiling at him had really sent the _Gloucester City_ to the bottom!--and now, on the anniversary of the crime, was coolly proposing to anchor himself as near as might be over her ocean grave, preparatory to disturbing it on the morrow!--No! He ridiculed himself. It was impossible! No man could have the iron will--he glanced straight into the blue eyes of the impassive Horst, read nothing--no man could stand the strain without betraying himself. The murderer brought back to the scene of his crime broke down into confession--and, if he were the murderer of the _Gloucester City_, Horst was being brought back with ironic inexorability to the site of his assassination, brought back by those subtle, apparently normal, everyday circumstances from which there is no escape.