The second of the series of curious incidents that complicated our return voyage occurred that night.  I was on watch from eight bells midnight until four in the morning.  Jones was in the crow’s-nest, McNamara at the wheel.  I was at the starboard forward corner of the after house, looking over the rail.  I thought that I had seen the lights of a steamer.

The rain had ceased, but the night was still very dark.  I heard a sort of rapping from the forward house, and took a step toward it, listening.  Jones heard it, too, and called down to me, nervously, to see what was wrong.

I called up to him, cautiously, to come dawn and take my place while I investigated.  I thought it was Singleton.  When Jones had taken up his position at the companionway, I went forward.  The knocking continued, and I traced it to Singleton’s cabin.  His window was open, being too small for danger, but barred across with strips of wood outside, like those in the after house.  But he was at the door, hammering frantically.  I called to him through the open window, but the only answer was renewed and louder pounding.

I ran around to his door, and felt for the key, which I carried.

“What is the matter?” I called.

“Who is it?”

“Leslie.”

“For God’s sake, open the door!”

I unlocked it and threw it open.  He retreated before me, with his hands out, and huddled against the wall beside the window.  I struck a match.  His face was drawn and distorted, and he held his arm up as if to ward off a blow.

I lighted the lamp, for there were no electric lights in the forward house, and stared at him, amazed.  Satisfied that I was really Leslie, he had stooped, and was fumbling under the window.  When he straightened, he held something out to me in the palm of his shaking hand.  I saw, with surprise, that it was a tobacco-pouch.

“Well?” I demanded.

“It was on the ledge,” he said hoarsely.  “I put it there myself.  All the time I was pounding, I kept saying that, if it was still there, it was not true—­I’d just fancied it.  If the pouch was on the floor, I’d know.”

“Know what?”

“It was there,” he said, looking over his shoulder.  “It’s been there three times, looking in—­all in white, and grinning at me.”

“A man?”

“It—­it hasn’t got any face.”

“How could it grin—­at you if it hasn’t any face?” I demanded impatiently.  “Pull yourself together and tell me what you saw.”

It was some time before he could tell a connected story, and, when he did, I was inclined to suspect that he had heard us talking the night before, had heard Adams’s description of the intruder on the forecastle-head, and that, what with drink and terror, he had fancied the rest.  And yet, I was not so sure.

“I was asleep, the first time,” he said.  “I don’t know how long ago it was.  I woke up cold, with the feeling that something was looking at me.  I raised up in bed, and there was a thing at the window.  It was looking in.”