"Something urged me to follow him, even if it took the last drop of my strength. Kato tried to dissuade me, but I drained the brandy flask, and managed to get out of my berth on to the deck by going very slowly, though the sweat broke out on me with every step. Burgess had disappeared, and there was nobody on deck. It was not so difficult to get to the sky-light of the cabin. I don't know what I had expected to see, but there I did see the figure of Captain Dayrell, dressed as I had seen him in life, with a big scarf round his throat, and the big peaked cap. There was an open chest in the corner, with a good many clothes scattered about, as if by some one who had been dressing in a hurry. It was an old chest belonging to Captain Dayrell in the old days, and I often wondered why Burgess had left it lying there. The revolver lay on the table, and as Dayrell picked it up to load it, the scarf unwound itself a little around his throat and the lower part of his face. Then, to my amazement, I recognized him." "There," said Knight, "the log of the _Evening Star_ ends except for a brief sentence by Kato himself, which I will not read to you now." "I wonder if the poor devil did really see," said Moreton Fitch. "And what do you suppose he did when he saw who it was?" "Crept back to his own berth, barricaded himself in with Kato's help, finished his account, died in the night, with Dayrell tapping on the door, and was neatly buried by Burgess in the morning, I suppose." "And, Burgess?" "Tidied everything up, and then jumped overboard." "Probably,--in his own clothes; for it's quite true that we did find a lot of Dayrell's old clothes in a sea-chest in the cabin. Funny idea, isn't it, a man ghosting himself like that?" "Yes, but what did Harper mean by saying he heard Mrs. Burgess singing in the cabin that night?" "Ah, that's another section of the log recorded in a different way." Moreton Fitch made a sign to the little Japanese, and told him to get a package out of his car. He returned in a moment, and laid it at our feet on the floor. "Dayrell was very proud of his wife's voice," said Fitch as he took the covers off the package. "Just before he was taken ill he conceived the idea of getting some records made of her songs to take with him on board ship. The gramophone was found amongst the old clothes. The usual sentimental stuff, you know. Like to hear it? She had rather a fine voice." He turned a handle, and, floating out into the stillness of the California night, we heard the full rich voice of a dead woman: "_Just a song at twilight, when the lights are low, And the flickering shadows softly come and go._" At the end of the stanza, a deep bass voice broke in with, "_Encore! Encore!_" Then Fitch stopped it. When we were in the car on our way home, I asked if there were any clue to the fate of the Japanese cook, in the last sentence of the log of the _Evening Star_.