“You might, as we shall be in the Mersey early in the morning and there’s packing up to be done. But I’ll take another turn. Good-night.” “Well, if you send me to bed, good-night. I daresay another ten minutes in the fresh air will take the blues out of you.” For another hour Lord Francis tramped up and down, unconscious of the unlit cigar in his mouth, thinking of the time when he first met Fenella, of the years of idyllic happiness that followed their wedding day, of Ronny’s appearance on the scene, of the little rift in the lute that, unwatched, broadened slowly, and made all the music of their young lives mute. Softly he sang to himself: Farewell, farewell, A river flows between. “Going to be a nasty night,” said a tarpaulined figure, looming out of the murk that enveloped the fore-part of the deck, over which the spray drifted as the _Danic_ plunged her head into the angry sea, and lifting it again shook it as a retriever dashes the water off its front. “So it seems, bos’n,” said Lord Francis. “But we’re not far off port now. Good-night.” “Good-night, my lord. Better not leave things loose about in your stateroom to-night.” * * * * * Jacynth slept the sleep of a man with a quiet conscience and a good digestion, who had passed the greater part of the day on deck of a ship over which swept strong air blown across the broad Atlantic. He rarely dreamt, but on this particular night, some two hours after he had bidden Lord Francis good-night, and turned into the stateroom he had all to himself, he began tossing about with a great weight on his mind. If he had a weakness in the matter of personal dress it was centered upon his stockings of rich red wool and ribbed as is the salt sea sand. He had a shapely leg, and missed no opportunity when out of town of displaying it with the advantage of knickerbocker dress. He was dreaming now that a great calamity had befallen his treasured store of stockings. A spark from the funnel of the steamer, which, as he went below, he had seen streaming fire into the dark night, had, in the unaccountable way peculiar to dreams, fallen upon his bundle of stockings snugly ensconced in his box in the stateroom, and they were hopelessly smoldering; in vain he struggled to rise, seize a jug of water, and souse them. Something held him down by the chest, and he could not move. His terror seemed to have communicated itself to the passengers and crew. Hurried feet trampled on deck overhead. Voices sounded in eager talk, and the bos’n’s whistle shrilly rose above the row of the waves that thunderously beat aft the shattered port-light. Possibly help would come in time and some of the stockings would be saved. A rattle at the door. Jacynth, almost awake, cried “Come in,” an invitation quite superfluous, for the door was burst open. “Look alive, sir!” shouted the bos’n, entering hurriedly. “Ship’s afire, and the boats are being got ready!”