that rare and curious work, "Denneker's Meditations," and the lady's
index finger rested on this passage:

"To sundry it is given to be drawn away, and to be apart from the
body for a season; for, as concerning rills which would flow across
each other the weaker is borne along by the stronger, so there be
certain of kin whose paths intersecting, their souls do bear company,
the while their bodies go fore-appointed ways, unknowing."


Miss Harford arose, shuddering; the sun had sunk below the horizon,
but it was not cold. There was not a breath of wind; there were no
clouds in the sky, yet not a star was visible. A hurried tramping
sounded on the deck; the captain, summoned from below, joined the
first officer, who stood looking at the barometer. "Good God!" I
heard him exclaim.

An hour later the form of Janette Harford, invisible in the darkness
and spray, was torn from my grasp by the cruel vortex of the sinking
ship, and I fainted in the cordage of the floating mast to which I
had lashed myself.

It was by lamplight that I awoke. I lay in a berth amid the familiar
surroundings of the stateroom of a steamer. On a couch opposite sat
a man, half undressed for bed, reading a book. I recognized the face
of my friend Gordon Doyle, whom I had met in Liverpool on the day of
my embarkation, when he was himself about to sail on the steamer City
of Prague, on which he had urged me to accompany him.

After some moments I now spoke his name. He simply said, "Well," and