I lighted the lamp, for there were no electric lights in the forward
house, and stared at him, amazed. Satisfied that I was really Leslie,
he had stooped, and was fumbling under the window. When he
straightened, he held something out to me in the palm of his shaking
hand. I saw, with surprise, that it was a tobacco-pouch.

"Well?" I demanded.

"It was on the ledge," he said hoarsely. "I put it there myself.
All the time I was pounding, I kept saying that, if it was still there,
it was not true--I'd just fancied it. If the pouch was on the floor,
I'd know."

"Know what?"

"It was there," he said, looking over his shoulder. "It's been
there three times, looking in--all in white, and grinning at me."

"A man?"

"It--it hasn't got any face."

"How could it grin--at you if it hasn't any face?" I demanded
impatiently. "Pull yourself together and tell me what you saw."

It was some time before he could tell a connected story, and, when
he did, I was inclined to suspect that he had heard us talking the
night before, had heard Adams's description of the intruder on the
forecastle-head, and that, what with drink and terror, he had