'He's a good old chap,' said Maurice, carelessly. 'And you're not half a bad old girl. See?' Mabel almost wept for joy at this magnificent compliment, and Lord Hugh himself took on a more happy and confident air. Please dismiss any fears which you may entertain that after this Maurice became a model boy. He didn't. But he was much nicer than before. The conversation which he overheard when he was a cat makes him more patient with his father and mother. And he is almost always nice to Mabel, for he cannot forget all that she was to him when he wore the shape of Lord Hugh. His father attributes all the improvement in his son's character to that week at Dr. Strongitharm's--which, as you know, Maurice never had. Lord Hugh's character is unchanged. Cats learn slowly and with difficulty. Only Maurice and Lord Hugh know the truth--Maurice has never told it to any one except me, and Lord Hugh is a very reserved cat. He never at any time had that free flow of mew which distinguished and endangered the cat-hood of Maurice. II THE MIXED MINE The ship was first sighted off Dungeness. She was labouring heavily. Her paint was peculiar and her rig outlandish. She looked like a golden ship out of a painted picture. 'Blessed if I ever see such a rig--nor such lines neither,' old Hawkhurst said. It was a late afternoon, wild and grey. Slate-coloured clouds drove across the sky like flocks of hurried camels. The waves were purple and blue, and in the west a streak of unnatural-looking green light was all that stood for the splendours of sunset. 'She do be a rum 'un,' said young Benenden, who had strolled along the beach with the glasses the gentleman gave him for saving the little boy from drowning. 'Don't know as I ever see another just like her.' 'I'd give half a dollar to any chap as can tell me where she hails from--and what port it is where they has ships o' that cut,' said middle-aged Haversham to the group that had now gathered. 'George!' exclaimed young Benenden from under his field-glasses, 'she's going.' And she went. Her bow went down suddenly and she stood stern up in the water--like a duck after rain. Then quite slowly, with no unseemly hurry, but with no moment's change of what seemed to be her fixed purpose, the ship sank and the grey rolling waves wiped out the place where she had been. Now I hope you will not expect me to tell you anything more about this ship--because there is nothing more to tell. What country she came from, what port she was bound for, what cargo she carried, and what kind of tongue her crew spoke--all these things are dead secrets. And a dead secret is a secret that nobody knows. No other secrets are dead secrets. Even I do not know this one, or I would tell you at once. For I, at least, have no secrets from you. [Illustration: Her bow went down suddenly.]