Half in the streak of the wake and half out of it, I perceived the sleeve of a white jacket, and, near to it, a soft felt hat.  The sleeve rose up once into clear view, seemed to describe a half-circle in the air then sink back again into the glassy swell of the water.  Only the hat remained floating upon the surface.

By the evidence of the white sleeve alone I might have remained unconvinced, although upon the voyage I had become familiar enough with the drill shooting-jacket, but the presence of the gray felt hat was almost conclusive.

The man overboard was Nayland Smith!

I cannot hope, writing now, to convey in any words at my command, a sense, even remote, of the utter loneliness which in that dreadful moment closed coldly down upon me.

To spring overboard to the rescue was a natural impulse, but to have obeyed it would have been worse than quixotic.  In the first place, the drowning man was close upon half a mile astern; in the second place, others had seen the hat and the white coat as clearly as I; among them the third-officer, standing upright in the stern of the boat—­which, with commendable promptitude had already been swung into the water.  The steamer was being put about, describing a wide arc around the little boat dancing on the deep blue rollers. . . .

Of the next hour, I cannot bear to write at all.  Long as I had known him, I was ignorant of my friend’s powers as a swimmer, but I judged that he must have been a poor one from the fact that he had sunk so rapidly in a calm sea.  Except the hat, no trace of Nayland Smith remained when the boat got to the spot.

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE MUMMY

Dinner was out of the question that night for all of us.  Karamaneh who had spoken no word, but, grasping my hands, had looked into my eyes—­her own glassy with unshed tears—­and then stolen away to her cabin, had not since reappeared.  Seated upon my berth, I stared unseeingly before me, upon a changed ship, a changed sea and sky upon another world.  The poor old bishop, my neighbor, had glanced in several times, as he hobbled by, and his spectacles were unmistakably humid; but even he had vouchsafed no word, realizing that my sorrow was too deep for such consolation.

When at last I became capable of connected thought, I found myself faced by a big problem.  Should I place the facts of the matter, as I knew them to be, before the captain? or could I hope to apprehend Fu-Manchu’s servant by the methods suggested by my poor friend?  That Smith’s death was an accident, I did not believe for a moment; it was impossible not to link it with the attempt upon Karamaneh.  In my misery and doubt, I determined to take counsel with Dr. Stacey.  I stood up, and passed out on to the deck.

Those passengers whom I met on my way to his room regarded me in respectful silence.  By contrast, Stacey’s attitude surprised and even annoyed me.