Suddenly across his brain swept recollections of that room in which he had been imprisoned—that gruesome chamber with its unmistakable evidence of a tragedy—the place in which some unknown woman had been foully done to death. He remembered his meeting with those two ladies outside Kensington Gardens, their hospitality and its dire result. At any rate, there was one satisfaction, that his enemies, whoever they were, had spared his life. He rose, his limbs feeling very sore and stiff. How long had elapsed since he had so suddenly met that mysterious burst of smoke he had no idea. Nor had he any knowledge of where he had been, or where that room of tragedy was situated. All remained a complete blank. In rising to his feet he nearly fell owing to the heavy roll of the vessel—a steamer evidently, for he could feel the vibration of the engines. Unsteadily he opened the door, and found himself in a narrow gangway, with several cabins on either side. Opposite him a door stood open, revealing a burly, dark-bearded man in uniform lounging in a chair, smoking a pipe and reading a book. Hearing Gerald’s footsteps he turned his head. "Hulloa!" he cried roughly. "Got over your drunk then, Mr. Simpson? Come in here!" "Thanks," was Durrant’s reply. "But I never drink, and my name is not Simpson." "Ah! I thought you’d say that! Sit down, anyway," the captain remarked, with a good-humoured laugh. "Yesterday when we had a chat, you didn’t deny that your name was George Simpson, did you?" "I don’t remember having had a chat with you yesterday," replied Gerald, amazed at the captain’s words. "Ah! You don’t remember much, do you? Got a very bad memory, I know." "No, I’ve got a pretty good memory, and to my knowledge I’ve never seen you in my life before." "And yet you spent last night with me, and drank more than you ought to have done. Whisky is a bad thing for you, young fellow. You should leave it alone. Never drink till you’re forty-five. That’s what I say." Durrant sank into the chair, and gazed around the captain’s cabin absolutely bewildered. "What ship is this?" he asked at last. "You asked me that yesterday. This is the _Pentyrch_, of Sunderland, bound from Hull to Singapore," was the reply. "And we are on our way there!" gasped the young man in blank dismay. "Yes. Three days out." "Where are we now?" "Off Finisterre." "Will you tell me your name, Captain?" Durrant asked quite calmly. "Bowden—John Bowden. And I live at Empress Villa, Queen Street, Sunderland. Aged forty-one; married; two kids. Anything more?" "Yes, a lot," was the other’s reply. "You asked me a lot of questions about the ship last night, and I told you. We’ve got a general cargo, and after Singapore we go to Batavia, then to Wellington, New Zealand, and back home." "How long shall we be away?"