Captain Trimblett got the letter next morning and, hurrying off to the nearest post-office, filled up a telegraph-form with a few incisive words dashed off at white heat. He destroyed six forms before he had arrived at what he considered a happy mean between strength and propriety, and then at the lady clerk’s earnest request altered one of the words of the seventh. A few hours later he was on his way to Salthaven. It was late when he arrived and the office of Vyner and Son was closed. He went on to Laurel Lodge, and, after knocking and ringing for some time in vain, walked back to the town and went on board his ship. The new crew had not yet been signed on, and Mr. Walters, the only man aboard, was cut short in his expressions of pleasure at the captain’s return and sent ashore for provisions. “Time you went to sea again,” said the captain a little later as the boatswain went on his hands and knees to recover the pieces of a plate he had dropped. “I wish I’d gone a month ago, sir,” said Mr. Walters. “Shore’s no place for a sailorman.” The captain grunted, and turning suddenly surprised the eye of Mr. Walters fixed upon him with an odd, puzzled expression that he had noticed before that evening. Mr. Walters, caught in the act, ducked from sight, and recovered a crumb that was trying to pass itself off as a piece of china. “What are you staring at me for?” demanded the captain. “Me, sir?” said the boatswain. “I wasn’t staring.” He rose with his hands full of pieces and retreated to the door. Almost against his will he stole another glance at the captain and blinked hastily at the gaze that met his own. “If I’ve got a smut on my nose—” began the captain, ferociously. “No, sir,” said Mr. Walters, disappearing. “Come here!” roared the other. The boatswain came back reluctantly. “If I catch you making those faces at me again,” said the captain, whom the events of the last day or two had reduced to a state of chronic ill-temper, “I’ll—I’ll——” “Yessir,” said Mr. Walters, cheerfully. “I——” He disappeared again, but his voice came floating down the companion-ladder. “I ’ope—you’ll accept—my good—wishes.” Captain Trimblett started as though he had been stung, and his temperature rose to as near boiling point as science and the human mechanism will allow. Twice he opened his mouth to bellow the boatswain back again, and twice his courage failed him. He sat a picture of wrathful consternation until, his gaze falling on a bottle of beer, he emptied it with great rapidity, and pushing his plate away and lighting his pipe sat trying to read a harmless meaning into Mr. Walters’s infernal congratulations. He rose early next morning and set off for Laurel Lodge, a prey to gloom, which the furtive glances of Mr. Walters had done nothing to dissipate. Hartley was still in his bedroom when he arrived, but Rosa showed him into the dining-room, and, having placed a chair, sped lightly upstairs.