"Are you going to relatives in France?" I asked.

"No; I have no relatives, no near friends. I am alone in the world. My
mother I cannot remember; she died when I was very young. My father had
riches, but they went before he died. Still, France is home, and I must
go there." She turned her head away to the long wastes of sea.

Little more passed between us. I advised her to come often on deck, and
mingle with the passengers; and told her that, when she pleased, I should
be glad to do any service that lay in my power. Her last words were
that, after we put into Aden, she would possibly take me at my word.

After she had gone, I found myself wondering at my presentiment that Aden
was to be associated with critical points in the history of some of us;
and from that moment I began to connect Justine Caron with certain events
which, I felt sure, were marshalling to an unhappy conclusion. I
wondered, too, what part I should play in the development of the comedy,
tragedy, or whatever it was to be. In this connection I thought of Belle
Treherne, and of how I should appear in her eyes if that little scene
with Mrs. Falchion, now always staring me in the face, were rehearsed
before her. I came quickly to my feet, with a half-imprecation at
myself; and a verse of a crude sea-song was in my ears:

"You can batten down cargo, live and dead,
But you can't put memory out of sight;
You can paint the full sails overhead,
But you can't make a black deed white. . . ."

Angry, I said to myself: "It wasn't a black deed; it was foolish, it was