bodies of his kind, and already entering into the processes of
digestion. And yet, there, in the shade on the pin-rail, that
unbelievable and monstrous heart beat on.



CHAPTER XXIV



The voyage is doomed to disaster and death. I know Mr. Pike, now,
and if ever he discovers the identity of Mr. Mellaire, murder will be
done. Mr. Mellaire is not Mr. Mellaire. He is not from Georgia. He
is from Virginia. His name is Waltham--Sidney Waltham. He is one of
the Walthams of Virginia, a black sheep, true, but a Waltham. Of
this I am convinced, just as utterly as I am convinced that Mr. Pike
will kill him if he learns who he is.

Let me tell how I have discovered all this. It was last night,
shortly before midnight, when I came up on the poop to enjoy a whiff
of the south-east trades in which we are now bowling along, close-
hauled in order to weather Cape San Roque. Mr. Pike had the watch,
and I paced up and down with him while he told me old pages of his
life. He has often done this, when not "sea-grouched," and often he
has mentioned with pride--yes, with reverence--a master with whom he
sailed five years. "Old Captain Somers," he called him--"the finest,
squarest, noblest man I ever sailed under, sir."

Well, last night our talk turned on lugubrious subjects, and Mr.
Pike, wicked old man that he is, descanted on the wickedness of the