“The chief officer of the _Shearwater_ answered that question: ‘With his ship,’ he said in an ugly, injured tone. “I assure you that that captain, faultlessly dressed, quite magnificent and self-confident, now that his own vessel was safe, hadn’t a word to say. The _Shearwater’s_ engineer turned on him with a snarling, ‘Captain Owen ran his own ship under to save yours.’ “But, while that was the bald truth, I felt no interest in the affair on that side. I was looking at Kitty Melrose. Sheila’s queer, plaintive, ‘Nobody would ever tell me,’ sounded in my ears. In my pocket was that message that Harry had wirelessed across the night before. What would Kitty say? Nothing, of course. She stood remote and fine and composed in a little space surrounded by anxious and curious and respectful men and women. Yet I saw in her gaze, still fixed on the spot amid the tumbling seas where Harry Owen had gone to his death, something”--Gorham fumbled around a bit, scratched a match, blew it out, glanced at me with a gloomy eye, finished his sentence in a voice suddenly husky--“something Harry must have dreamed of seeing.” “They said he was crazy,” I remarked lifelessly. “Women drive men mad,” Gorham returned with amazing earnestness. “Harry’s madness was--it was something you and I would give our souls for.” “I looked down at the flimsy bit of paper on the table, and sighed. It was Owen’s final message. It read: Miss Katherine Melrose, SS _W. Pacific_. You cannot say no this time. Harry Owen, Master _Shearwater_. “Yes,” said Gorham slowly, “I saw her hand rest lightly on her bosom and I knew that Harry’s message lay there.” “But she never answered it!” I cried. My companion stared at me. “Oh, yes, she answered it. As such women do. That night she came to my room and said abruptly, ‘They tell me he--Harry--Harry Owen went into his cabin and closed the door.’ “‘That is true,’ I told her. “‘And he did not open the door again?’ she insisted. “‘No,’ I said. “She lifted her bright and luminous eyes to mine and tried to smile, gallantly. “‘He wouldn’t,’ she said quietly. ‘It was like Harry to close a door--and never open it again.’ “Then she slipped out of my room without a sound.” [Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the October 1922 issue of Ainslee’s magazine.]