“My name’s Leggatt.”

The voice was calm and resolute.  A good voice.  The self-possession of that man had somehow induced a corresponding state in myself.  It was very quietly that I remarked: 

“You must be a good swimmer.”

“Yes.  I’ve been in the water practically since nine o’clock.  The question for me now is whether I am to let go this ladder and go on swimming till I sink from exhaustion, or—­to come on board here.”

I felt this was no mere formula of desperate speech, but a real alternative in the view of a strong soul.  I should have gathered from this that he was young; indeed, it is only the young who are ever confronted by such clear issues.  But at the time it was pure intuition on my part.  A mysterious communication was established already between us two—­in the face of that silent, darkened tropical sea.  I was young, too; young enough to make no comment.  The man in the water began suddenly to climb up the ladder, and I hastened away from the rail to fetch some clothes.

Before entering the cabin I stood still, listening in the lobby at the foot of the stairs.  A faint snore came through the closed door of the chief mate’s room.  The second mate’s door was on the hook, but the darkness in there was absolutely soundless.  He, too, was young and could sleep like a stone.  Remained the steward, but he was not likely to wake up before he was called.  I got a sleeping suit out of my room and, coming back on deck, saw the naked man from the sea sitting on the main hatch, glimmering white in the darkness, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.  In a moment he had concealed his damp body in a sleeping suit of the same gray-stripe pattern as the one I was wearing and followed me like my double on the poop.  Together we moved right aft, barefooted, silent.

“What is it?” I asked in a deadened voice, taking the lighted lamp out of the binnacle, and raising it to his face.

“An ugly business.”

He had rather regular features; a good mouth; light eyes under somewhat heavy, dark eyebrows; a smooth, square forehead; no growth on his cheeks; a small, brown mustache, and a well-shaped, round chin.  His expression was concentrated, meditative, under the inspecting light of the lamp I held up to his face; such as a man thinking hard in solitude might wear.  My sleeping suit was just right for his size.  A well-knit young fellow of twenty-five at most.  He caught his lower lip with the edge of white, even teeth.

“Yes,” I said, replacing the lamp in the binnacle.  The warm, heavy tropical night closed upon his head again.

“There’s a ship over there,” he murmured.

“Yes, I know.  The Sephora.  Did you know of us?”

“Hadn’t the slightest idea.  I am the mate of her—­” He paused and corrected himself.  “I should say I was.”

“Aha!  Something wrong?”

“Yes.  Very wrong indeed.  I’ve killed a man.”