"Don't!" he said. "You know you don't think so, really."

I answered nothing, just then; for I knew very well that he was right.
We were silent for a couple of moments.

Then he spoke again:

"Is the ship haunted?"

For an instant I hesitated.

"No," I said, at length. "I don't think she is. I mean, not in that
way."

"What way, then?"

"Well, I've formed a bit of a theory, that seems wise one minute, and
cracked the next. Of course, it's as likely to be all wrong; but it's
the only thing that seems to me to fit in with all the beastly things
we've had lately."

"Go on!" he said, with an impatient, nervous movement.

"Well, I've an idea that it's nothing _in_ the ship that's likely to
hurt us. I scarcely know how to put it; but, if I'm right in what I
think, it's the ship herself that's the cause of everything."

"What do you mean?" he asked, in a puzzled voice. "Do you mean that the
ship _is_ haunted, after all?"