what was in it, and that I would hand it to her later. I also said that
he had written to me the record of last night's meeting with her, and
that he had left a letter which was to be made public. As I said these
things we were walking the decks, and, because eyes were on both of us,
I tried to show nothing more unusual in manner than the bare tragedy
might account for.

"Well," she said, with a curious coldness, "what use shall you make of
your special knowledge?"

"I intend," I said, "to respect his wish, that your relationship to him
be kept unknown, unless you declare otherwise."

"That is reasonable. If he had always been as reasonable! And," she
continued, "I do not wish the relationship to be known: practically there
is none. . . . Oh! oh!" she added, with a sudden change in her
voice, "why did he do as he did, and make everything else impossible--
impossible! . . . Send me, or give me the packet, when you wish: and
now please leave me, Dr. Marmion."

The last few words were spoken with some apparent feeling, but I knew she
was thinking of herself most, and I went from her angry.

I did not see her again before the hour that afternoon when we should
give the bodies of the two men to the ocean. No shroud could be prepared
for gunner Fife and able-seaman Winter, whose bodies had no Christian
burial, but were swallowed by the eager sea, not to be yielded up even
for a few hours. We were now steaming far beyond the place where they
were lost.