Schwartz disappeared in the early morning of August 9.  And now I come, not without misgiving, to the night of August 12.  I am wondering if, after all, I have made clear the picture that is before my eyes:  the languid cruise, the slight relaxation of discipline, due to the leisure of a pleasure voyage, the Ella again rolling gently, with hardly a dash of spray to show that she was moving, the sun beating down on her white decks and white canvas, on the three women in summer attire, on unending-bridge, with its accompaniment of tall glasses filled with ice, on Turner’s morose face and Vail’s watchful one.  In the forecastle, much gossip and not a little fear, and in the forward house, where Captain Richardson and Singleton had their quarters, veiled hostility and sullen silence.

August 11 was Tuesday, a hot August day, with only enough air going to keep our sails filled.  At five o’clock I served afternoon tea, and shortly after I went to Williams’s cabin in the forward house to dress the wound in his head, a long cut, which was now healing.  I passed the captain’s cabin, and heard him quarreling with the first mate, who was replying, now and then, sullenly.  Only the tones of their voices reached me.

When I had finished with Williams, and was returning, the quarrel was still going on.  Their voices ceased as I passed the door, and there was a crash, as of a chair violently overturned.  The next bit I heard.

“Put that down!” the captain roared.

I listened, uncertain whether to break in or not.  The next moment, Singleton opened the door and saw me.  I went on as if I had heard nothing.

Beyond that, the day was much as other days.  Turner ate no dinner that night.  He was pale, and twitching; even with my small experience, I knew he was on the verge of delirium tremens.  He did not play cards, and spent much of the evening wandering restlessly about on deck.  Mrs. Turner retired early.  Mrs. Johns played accompaniments for Vail to sing to, in the chart-room, until something after eleven, when they, too, went to their rooms.

It being impracticable for me to go to my quarters in the storeroom until the after house was settled, I went up on deck.  Miss Lee had her arm through Turner’s and was talking to him.  He seemed to be listening to her; but at last he stopped and freed his arm, not ungently.

“That all sounds very well, Elsa,” he said, “but you don’t know what you are talking about.”

“I know this.”

“I’m not a fool—­or blind.”

He lurched down the companionway and into the cabin.  I heard her draw a long breath; then she turned and saw me.

“Is that you, Leslie?”

“Yes, Miss Lee.”

She came toward me, the train of her soft white gown over her arm, and the light from a lantern setting some jewels on her neck to glittering.

“Mrs. Johns has told me where you are sleeping.  You are very good to do it, although I think she is rather absurd.”