“Then you believe he’s lost?” said Miss Keene, with glistening eyes.

“There ain’t a doubt of it,” returned Winslow shortly.

“I don’t agree with you,” said a gentle voice.

They turned quickly towards the benevolent face of Senor Perkins, who had just joined them.

“I differ from my young friend,” continued the Senor courteously, “because the accident must have happened at about daybreak, when we were close inshore.  It would not be impossible for a good swimmer to reach the land, or even,” continued Senor Perkins, in answer to the ray of hope that gleamed in Miss Keene’s soft eyes, “for him to have been picked up by some passing vessel.  The smoke of a large steamer was sighted between us and the land at about that time.”

“A steamer!” ejaculated Banks eagerly; “that was one of the new line with the mails.  How provoking!”

He was thinking of his lost letters.  Miss Keene turned, heart-sick, away.  Worse than the ghastly interruption to their easy idyllic life was this grim revelation of selfishness.  She began to doubt if even the hysterical excitement of her sister passengers was not merely a pleasant titillation of their bored and inactive nerves.

“I believe the Senor is right, Miss Keene,” said Brace, taking her aside, “and I’ll tell you why.”  He stopped, looked around him, and went on in a lower voice, “There are some circumstances about the affair which look more like deliberation than an accident.  He has left nothing behind him of any value or that gives any clue.  If it was a suicide he would have left some letter behind for somebody—­people always do, you know, at such times—­and he would have chosen the open sea.  It seems more probable that he threw himself overboard with the intention of reaching the shore.”

“But why should he want to leave the ship?” echoed the young girl simply.

“Perhaps he found out that we were not going to Mazatlan, and this was his only chance; it must have happened just as the ship went about and stood off from shore again.”

“But I don’t understand,” continued Miss Keene, with a pretty knitting of her brows, “why he should be so dreadfully anxious to get ashore now.”

The young fellow looked at her with the superior smile of youthful sagacity.

“Suppose he had particular reasons for not going to San Francisco, where our laws could reach him!  Suppose he had committed some offense!  Suppose he was afraid of being questioned or recognized!”

The young girl rose indignantly.

“This is really too shameful!  Who dare talk like that?”

Brace colored quickly.

“Who?  Why, everybody,” he stammered, for a moment abandoning his attitude of individual acumen; “it’s the talk of the ship.”

“Is it?  And before they know whether he’s alive or dead—­perhaps even while he is still struggling with death—­all they can do is to take his character away!” she repeated, with flashing eyes.