Once he made a casual remark to his neighbour on the matter. His answer was merely a nod between mouthfuls, so he dropped the subject and said no more about it. But for all that, he was becoming convinced that something had taken place ... out there. ‘Snatcher’ Shelldon and he had been friends since their _Britannia_ days. His surroundings looked unfamiliar and a sickening anxiety came over him. ‘How could the others go on eating when perhaps?...’ He pulled himself together and made a pretence at a meal. ‘Mustn’t give way to morbid imaginings,’ he told himself. The meal over he sat apart and tried to collect his thoughts and enumerate various minor mishaps that might have delayed the boat. No, he could think of none that would account for it under the circumstances. At one-thirty work was resumed, and he plunged into a fever of exertion to take his thoughts off the subject. He made up his mind he wouldn’t come on deck before four o’clock, when work ceased for the day, and then either the sight of ‘159’ would dispel all doubts or else he had no more to hope for. But at four o’clock, when the hands were piped to tea, there was still no news, and shortly after ‘evening quarters’ two destroyers slipped quietly out of the harbour. Those who noticed their departure thought nothing of it at the time, and only wondered why the Captain’s temper seemed the worse for wear. By dinner time it was evident that every one in the mess was awake to the fact that a boat was missing, and in fine weather, too. Nobody mentioned her; they all kept studiously off the subject, but the conversation was subdued and everybody’s nerves seemed slightly on edge. Many of them had friends among the absent officers, and no one liked to voice the general opinion, although it would have been a relief if some one had. It was not a cheery meal, and they were all glad when it was over. Thus it was left to Private Boon to rush in where angels feared to tread. ‘That’s three of ’em less to lay for,’ he said. * * * * * Two days later the captain of the depot sat alone in his after-cabin. He was bending over the writing-table, surrounded by envelopes, paper, and accessories, but his thoughts did not seem to flow. He sat staring in front of him with unseeing eyes and chewing the end of his pen. At last he sighed and addressed himself to his task. Three letters he was writing, to anxious women who were waiting and hoping beyond hope, two wives and a lonely mother, to tell them that they might hope no longer. This kindly old gentleman was compiling the missives which were to bring anguish and sorrow to the hearts of those who waited.