these words. Yet if to the dead is given knowledge, be assured that as
you left me so you shall find me, yours and yours alone. Or perhaps we
both may live; I pray so.--S. R. S."

Folding up the paper, he undid a button of Benita's blouse and thrust
it away there, knowing that thus she would certainly find it should she
survive. Then he stepped out on to the deck to see what was happening.
The vessel still steamed, but made slow progress; moreover, the list to
starboard was now so pronounced that it was difficult to stand upright.
On account of it nearly all the passengers were huddled together upon
the port side, having instinctively taken refuge as far as possible
above the water. A man with a white, distraught face staggered towards
him, supporting himself by the bulwarks. It was the captain. For a
moment he paused as though to think, holding to a stanchion. Robert
Seymour saw his opportunity and addressed him.

"Forgive me," he said; "I do not like interfering with other people's
business, but for reasons unconnected with myself I suggest to you that
it would be wise to stop this ship and get out the boats. The sea is
calm; if it is not left till too late there should be no difficulty in
launching them."

The man stared at him absently, then said:

"They won't hold everybody, Mr. Seymour. I hope to beach her."

"At least they will hold some," he answered, "whereas----" And he
pointed to the water, which by now was almost level with the deck.

"Perhaps you are right, Mr. Seymour. It doesn't matter to me, anyway. I