"So much so, sir, so very much so, that I should like to talk with you, to—to ask you a question," he answered, passing his hand—a thin, white hand—across his brow, and up over the fur cap that was so out of keeping with the pale face below. "A question?" "If you will be so obliging as to listen, sir; let us sit awhile, for I am very weary." And with the words he sank down upon the grass. After a momentary hesitation, I followed his example, for my curiosity was piqued by the fellow's strange manner; yet, when we were sitting opposite each other, I saw that his hand was still hidden in the pocket of his coat. "Perhaps, sir," said he, in his nervous, hurried manner, "perhaps you would be better able to answer my question were I first to tell you a story—an ordinary, a very commonplace one, I fear, but with the virtue that it is short, and soon told." "My time is entirely my own," said I, leaning with my shoulders against the tree behind me; "proceed with your story." "First, then, my name is Strickland—John Strickland!" Here he paused, and, though his head was bent, I saw him watching me beneath his brows. "Well?" said I. "I am a supercargo." Again he paused expectantly, but seeing I merely nodded, he continued: "Upon one of my voyages, our vessel was wrecked, and, so far as I know, all save myself and six others—four seamen and two passengers—were drowned. The passengers I speak of were an old merchant—and his daughter, a very beautiful girl; her name was—Angela, sir." Once again he paused and again he eyed me narrowly. "Well?" said I.