And for all that, I was close on the heels of an absurd adventure.  My neighbour at table that evening was a ’Frisco man whom I knew slightly.  I found he had crossed the plains two days in front of me, and this was the first steamer that had left New York for Europe since his arrival.  Two days before me meant a day before Bellairs; and dinner was scarce done before I was closeted with the purser.

“Bellairs?” he repeated.  “Not in the saloon, I am sure.  He may be in the second class.  The lists are not made out, but—­Hullo!  ’Harry D. Bellairs?’ That the name?  He’s there right enough.”

And the next morning I saw him on the forward deck, sitting in a chair, a book in his hand, a shabby puma skin rug about his knees:  the picture of respectable decay.  Off and on, I kept him in my eye.  He read a good deal, he stood and looked upon the sea, he talked occasionally with his neighbours, and once when a child fell he picked it up and soothed it.  I damned him in my heart; the book, which I was sure he did not read—­the sea, to which I was ready to take oath he was indifferent—­the child, whom I was certain he would as lieve have tossed overboard—­all seemed to me elements in a theatrical performance; and I made no doubt he was already nosing after the secrets of his fellow-passengers.  I took no pains to conceal myself, my scorn for the creature being as strong as my disgust.  But he never looked my way, and it was night before I learned he had observed me.

I was smoking by the engine-room door, for the air was a little sharp, when a voice rose close beside me in the darkness.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Dodd,” it said.

“That you, Bellairs?” I replied.

“A single word, sir.  Your presence on this ship has no connection with our interview?” he asked.  “You have no idea, Mr. Dodd, of returning upon your determination?”

“None,” said I; and then, seeing he still lingered, I was polite enough to add “Good evening;” at which he sighed and went away.

The next day, he was there again with the chair and the puma skin; read his book and looked at the sea with the same constancy; and though there was no child to be picked up, I observed him to attend repeatedly on a sick woman.  Nothing fosters suspicion like the act of watching; a man spied upon can hardly blow his nose but we accuse him of designs; and I took an early opportunity to go forward and see the woman for myself.  She was poor, elderly, and painfully plain; I stood abashed at the sight, felt I owed Bellairs amends for the injustice of my thoughts, and seeing him standing by the rail in his usual attitude of contemplation, walked up and addressed him by name.

“You seem very fond of the sea,” said I.

“I may really call it a passion, Mr. Dodd,” he replied.  “And the tall cataract haunted me like a passion,” he quoted.  “I never weary of the sea, sir.  This is my first ocean voyage.  I find it a glorious experience.”  And once more my disbarred lawyer dropped into poetry:  “Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll!”