of touch with the world were they for months,--aye, even years,--and
no man knew whither they sailed nor whence they came, for those
were the days when the seven seas kept their secrets better than
they keep them now.

Into the path traversed by the lowly caravel steamed the towering
Doraine, pointing her gleaming nose to the north and east.

She was never seen again.

Out from the lairs of the great American navy sped the swiftest
hounds of the ocean. They swept the face of the waters with a
thousand sleepless eyes; they called with the strange, mysterious
voice that carries a thousand miles; they raked the sea as with
a fine-tooth comb; they searched the coast of a continent; they
penetrated its rivers, circled its islands, scanned its rocks and
reefs,--and asked a single question that had but one reply from
every ship that sailed the southern sea.

For months ships of all nations searched for the missing steamer.
Not so much as the smallest piece of wreckage rewarded the ceaseless
quest. The great vessel, with all its precious cargo, had slipped
into its niche among the profoundest mysteries of the sea. Came the
day, therefore, when the Secretary of the Navy wrote down against
her name the ugly sentence: "Lost with all on board."

Maritime courts issued their decrees; legatees parcelled estates,
great and small; insurance companies paid in hard cash for the
lives that were lost, and went blandly about their business; more
than one widow reconsidered her thoughts of self-denial; and ships