"LOSS OF A BRITISH STEAMER. _Only one survivor._--The S.S. _Eaglet_, concerning the fate of which so many rumours have been rife of late, is now known to have gone on the rocks off Ushant, and to have become a total wreck. The fate of the vessel would probably never have been known, but for the fact that a sailor was washed ashore, and after being tended by the good people there, was able to give some particulars as to the wreck. It appears that the vessel went on the rocks in one of those dense fogs peculiar to that coast, and broke up within a very few minutes. There is not the slightest doubt that this sailor, whose name is given as Henry Howard, is the sole survivor of the ill-fated vessel. It may be mentioned that among the passengers was a young gentleman of fortune--a Mr. Murray Olivant--who was travelling to the Mediterranean on a pleasure cruise." I sat with the soiled paper in my hands; I read so much more into the paragraph than any one else could have done. The real Murray Olivant lay in that pauper's grave beside which I had stood, and yet was buried as a man unknown; and here he was proclaimed as having been lost in the wreck of the vessel on which he was supposed to have sailed. More than that; for the hungry sea had claimed as a victim that man Jervis Fanshawe of the haunted eyes, who had killed him, and had gone on that voyage in his place. Justice has a long arm. My memories after that are confused; I think I must have suffered greatly during that winter, when I was alone and friendless in London. In my recollections of that time there is always a great roar and rush of traffic in my ears, and I seem always to be standing in the rain, or with the bitter wind ruffling my garments; at other times I am crouching over fires in small lodging houses, in the company of other forlorn wretches--outcasts like myself. I am always hungry, and I do not seem to understand what reason I have for living at all. And I find myself, like some uneasy ghost that has been forgotten, wandering about old familiar places, and going over again scenes that only I remember, and that belong only to the past. I find myself again in Lincoln's Inn Fields--unable now to remember clearly where a certain Gavin Hockley is--or whether I killed him, or someone else; wondering vaguely what he had to do with a certain Murray Olivant who died long ago--or was he drowned at sea? I find myself--an old man, with the rain beating upon me, and the wind driving at me--sitting on the steps of a house in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and wondering if I dare climb the stairs, to find what is hidden behind a locked door.