“Whatever possessed you to swim out here in the middle of the night?” I demanded, in a harsh whisper.

He chose to ignore the question, while I waited in a chill of suspense.  It was inconceivable that he could be aware of the truth of the situation and deliberately bent on forcing it to its unspeakable, tragic issue.

“Of late, Captain Barnaby, we seem to have taken to visiting each other rather frequently, don’t you think?”

It was lightly tossed off, but not without its evil implication; and I felt his eyes intently fixed upon me as he sat hunched up on the rail in his sodden sleeping-suit, like some huge, ill-omened bird of prey.

To get rid of him, to obliterate the horrible fact that he still existed in the flesh, was the instinctive impulse of my staggered brain.  But the peril of discovery, the chance that those sleeping below might waken and hear us, held me in a vise of indecision.

“If I could bring myself to reproach you, Captain,” he went on, ironically polite, “I might protest that your last visit to this island savoured of a too-inquisitive intrusion.  You’ll pardon my frankness.  I had convinced you and Major Stanleigh that Farquharson was dead.  To the world at large that should have sufficed.  That I choose to remain alive is my own affair.  Your sudden return to Muloa—­with a lady—­would have upset everything, if Fate and that inspired fool of a Malay had not happily intervened.  But now, surely, there can be no doubt that I am dead?”

I nodded assent in a dumb, helpless way.

“And I have a notion that even you, Captain Barnaby, will never dispute that fact.”

He threw back his head suddenly—­for all the world like the dancing faun—­and laughed silently at the stars.

My tongue was dry in my mouth as I tried to make some rejoinder.  He baffled me completely, and meanwhile I was in a tingle of fear lest the mate should come up on deck to see what progress the tide had made, or lest the sound of our voices might waken the girl in Joyce’s stateroom.

“I can promise you that,” I attempted to assure him in weak, sepulchral tones.  “And now, if you like, I’ll put you ashore in the small boat.  You must be getting chilly in that wet sleeping-suit.”

“As a matter of fact I am, and I was wondering if you would not offer me something to drink.”

“You shall have a bottle to take along,” I promised, with alacrity, but he demurred.

“There is no sociability in that.  And you seem very lonesome here—­stuck for two more hours at least.  Come, Captain, fetch your bottle and we will share it together.”

He got down from the rail, stretched his arms lazily above his head, and dropped into one of the deck chairs that had been placed aft for the convenience of my two passengers.

“And cigars, too, Captain,” he suggested, with a politeness that was almost impertinence.  “We’ll have a cozy hour or two out of this tedious wait for the tide to lift you off.”