Here I felt a trembling hand clasped on my knee, and Peter asked excitedly, “What name did you say?  Was it Murray?”

“Murray! yes, that was the man who died on New Year’s Day.”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Peter.  “Tell me, what was the name of the ship?  Did you not find that out?”

“Why, yes, Peter, I saw her name.  She was called the Pilgrim—­of Bristol.”

Peter became excited, and a strange pallor came over his face.

“Why, what’s come ower you, Peter?” asked Captain Flett.  “D’ye know the craft?”

“Know her!” said Peter; “I should think I did.  She was my own ship.  I sailed in the Pilgrim as second mate for three years, and I started with her on that same last voyage.”

It was now my turn to show surprise.

“Your ship, Peter!” I said.

“Yes,” he continued.  “We sailed out of Bristol in the month of February, 1830, bound for Copenhagen, calling at Iceland.  But off the Lewis—­or was it Cape Wrath?—­I had some o’ my bones broken, and they put me ashore at Kirkwall.”

“Yes, she called at Kirkwall,” I said.  “I saw that on the chart.”

“That was just before I joined the Falcon, captain,” continued Peter, turning to Flett.  “I mind them all, those dead folk, even to the dog that Ericson has told us about—­a retriever named Bounce.  Our skipper was a Dane named Thomassen, and his wife sailed with us that voyage.  She was as fine a woman as ever I see in Denmark.  Murray was the first mate, and the man Ericson saw through the porthole can have been none other than Jenkins, the supercargo; he belonged to Bristol.  The only thing that puzzles me is the man that Ericson saw lying in the captain’s room.”

“Maybe he went aboard in Iceland, Peter—­a passenger,” suggested Flett.  “Ye canna tell.”

“Ay, that’ll just be it,” mused Peter, “a passenger, no doubt.  Ay, I well believe that will just be what he was.”

Lieutenant Fox at this point moved away from the circle to get a light for his pipe at the stove.  He stood behind us listening to a conversation between Colin Lothian and Jack Paterson; and as Peter Brown lapsed into silent meditation I diverted my own attention to what Colin and Jack were saying.

“Ay, Colin, but that’s news,” said Paterson.  “And so Harry Ewan has fallen into their hands at last, eh!”

“Ay, just that,” said Lothian.  “I was over at Clestron yestreen, and they were telling me that just as Harry was slipping round into the Bay of Houton, thinking, no doubt, that everything was clear for the landin’ o’ his cargo, the revenue boat came out from behind the Holm, like a hawk on a ferret.  Ye may be sure, Jack, that Harry and his crew didna give in without a fight for it; but the navy lads had the upper hand at last, and, what was more to their purpose, they found in Ewan’s lugger five gallant casks o’ whisky, not to speak o’ half a dozen rolls o’ tobacco, and I dinna ken how muckle salt and candles.”