Coleman looked sharply at the young man, who was seated on the gunwale, but, discovering no encouragement in his set face and careless eyes, repressed his curiosity, and devoted himself to the task of overhauling the Francis Cadman.  It was a long and trying job, but he accomplished it without having exhausted his eloquence.  Indeed, his terms of endearment had been cautiously selected throughout, out of a heroic respect for the lady passenger.  The boatswain’s idea of language becoming in the presence of the gentler sex was rather liberal, perhaps; but in any case his nice consideration was wasted upon the girl, who heard never a word.  She lay as if in the grip of fever, her distorted mind pursuing quaint visions and trifling and irrelevant ideas.  As they drew near, the rescue-party sent out a breathless cheer, which was answered from the ship with a wild yell of exultation, and then a broadside of questions burst from the deck of the Francis Cadman, where every creature on board excitedly awaited the boat’s return.  The sonorous and masterful voice enforced silence again with a sentence.

‘How is it, bo’s’n?’ called the same voice a moment later.

’Got ’em both, sir,’ answered Coleman.

‘Both!’

‘Ay, ay, sir!’

A tumult of voices surged over the ship again; the heads piled themselves afresh, craning one above the other.  Two had gone overboard!  Only one had been reported, and one only was missed.  Interest was doubled.  For four weeks the Francis Cadman had been pottering about the Indian Ocean without discovering a single adventure to break the stupid monotony of sky and sea, and restore the faith of the passengers in their favourite maritime authors; but here, at last, was a sensation and a mystery.

Perhaps, after all, it was no mere accident, but a tragedy.  Men and women thronged the deck, thrilling with sympathy, and yet secretly hoping for a complete drama, even though someone must suffer.

The girl was first passed up.  When the young man followed she had been carried below.  He was barefooted, and clad only in singlet and trousers; his coat and shirt had been discarded in the sea.

Ryan’s expression sprang from every tongue.

‘The Hermit!’

The young man stood with his shoulders to the gunwale, facing the crowd.  There was something resentful in his attitude.  His face was that of a man about twenty-two, beardless and boyish, but the firm, straight mouth, with its compressed, slightly protuberant lips, and the thick line of dark brows, throwing the eyes into shadows, imparted an appearance of sullen reserve that belonged to an older face.  His scrutiny condemned men and repelled them.  His figure, about three inches above middle height, was that of a labourer whose strength was diffused through the limbs by swift and subtle exercise.  There was nothing rugged in his powerful outline, and every attitude had an architectural suggestion of strength.