“Yes, sir,” said he, “I can tell you where to find Captain Chesters.  He’s on shore, for he doesn’t command the Glanford now, and as far as I know he hasn’t signed articles yet either as skipper or mate in any other craft.  The fact is, he’s engaged in business, which I suppose he thinks better than sailing the sea.  He was married about a month ago.  It’s only two or three days since he’s got back from a little land trip they took on the Continent.  I saw him yesterday; he’s the happiest man alive.  But it’s as like as not that he’s ready for business now that he’s got through with his honeymoon, and if it’s a skipper you’re looking for you can’t find a better man than Captain Guy, not about these docks.”

I stood and looked at the man without seeing him, and then in a hollow voice asked:  “Where does he live?”

“A hundred and nine Lisbury Street, Calistoy Road, East.  Now that I’ve told you, I wish I hadn’t.  You look as though you were going to measure him for a coffin.”

“Thank you,” said I, and walked away.

I told the cabman to drive me to the address I had received, and in due time we arrived in front of a very good-looking house, in a quiet and respectable street.

I was in a peculiar state of mind.  I had half expected the terrible shock, and I had received it.  But I had not been stunned; I had been roused to an unusual condition of mental activity.  My senses were sharpened by the torment of my soul, and I observed everything,—­the quarter of the city, the street, the house.

The woman who opened the door started a little when she saw me.  I asked for Mrs. Captain Chesters, and walked in without waiting to be told whether the lady was in or not.  The woman showed me into a little parlor, and left me.  Her manner plainly indicated that she suspected something was the matter with me.

In a very short time a tall, well-made man, with curly brown hair, a handsome, sun-browned face, and that fine presence which command at sea frequently gives, entered the room.

“I understand, sir,” said he, “that you asked for my wife, but I thought it better to come to you myself.  What is your business with her, sir, and what is your name?”

“My name is Charles Rockwell,” I said, “and my business is to see her.  If she has already forgotten my name, you can tell her that I kept company with her for a while on the Atlantic Ocean, when she was in one wreck and I was in another.”

“Good heavens!” cried the young sailor; “do you mean to say that you are the man who was on the derelict Sparhawk?  And were you picked up by Captain Stearns, whom I sent after you?  I supposed he would have written to me about you.”

“I came faster than a letter would come,” I answered.  “Can I see her?”

“Of course you can!” cried Captain Guy.  “I never knew a man so talked about as you have been since I fell in with the wreck of that French steamer!  By George! sir, there was a time when I was dead jealous of you.  But I’m married tight and fast now, and that sort of thing is done with.  Of course you shall see her.”